jungkoode’s lab

jungkoode’s writing lab eng/work experiments | os & mini series asks closed in here. main: @jungkoode no consistency, no frequency. just vibes. (〜￣▽￣)〜

[kikiskook]

↷𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈?

this is jungkoode’s chaos den—aka where @jungkoode drops her unhinged, exploratory WIPs, chaotic drafts, crack drabbles, and emotional damage side quests. it’s the experimental junk drawer of the main fics: not polished, not promised, and definitely not sane. if main blog is the storybook, this one’s the scribbled margins, post-it notes, and “what if I ruined everyone’s life but sexily” drafts. read at your own risk (and pleasure).

masterlist | main blog: @jungkoode

↷𝒓𝒖𝒍𝒆𝒔

↳ 𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘯’𝘵 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘴. 𝘰𝘵7 𝘰𝘳 𝘨𝘵𝘧𝘰.

↳ 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘱𝘦/𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦/𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘬: 𝙙𝙤𝙣’𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙. 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵.

↳ ‘𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚 𝙬𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙚 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩’ 𝘯𝘰. 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘴. 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺’𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦. 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘤𝘬 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘰 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯.

↳ 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘤 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 @jungkoode 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘭𝘭!

↳ 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴 𝘤𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘢𝘴𝘬 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 ^

[kikiskook]

✿ where flowers don’t grow ✿

the garden is dying, and no one is watching.

Two years after your husband’s death, you receive a gift from your family: an android version of him, programmed to help you process grief. But Jungkook had secrets—and so did you. And no one warned the machine what love looks like when it’s wilted, when it’s already buried. Not every resurrection is a miracle.

pairing: jungkook x reader · second person pov

genre: angst · smut · psychological · metaphors · symbolism

warnings: grief, suicidal ideation, cheating (past), existential themes, android/human conflict, poetic language

rating: mature (18+)

status: completed · multi-part

word count: ~38,749 words

tag: #wfdg | moodboard | AO3

✿ chapter index

chapter one — daedelus dreams (3.1k)

chapter two — apollo’s garden (4.4k)

chapter three — when light touches (3.4k)

chapter four — embracing flames (4.5k)

chapter five — drunk on starlight (3.4k)

chapter six — wings of wax and want (4.1k)

chapter seven — the spontaneous flare (5.1k)

chapter eight — sun-touched (6.9k)

chapter nine — falling to earth (3.9k)

🎧 listen to the official playlist — read with headphones. icarus fell for less.

💬 feedback and tags always welcome · reblogs mean the world · talk to me if you cried

© jungkoode 2025 | main. @jungkoode

[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

[kikiskook]

when they say they write unconventional kinks in smut and i say oh me too! and then they say bondage and i have to bite clicker training behind my teeth

[kikiskook]

no i did not forget i wrote and posted a somnophilia fanfic i just discovered clicker training some days ago and it’s now my favorite thing ever i will not be taking questions

[kikiskook]

when they say they write unconventional kinks in smut and i say oh me too! and then they say bondage and i have to bite clicker training behind my teeth

[jungkoode]

Kiki Nation, I need your input!

I’m trying to compare my writing priorities with your reading priorities so I can better understand what everyone actually looks forward to. Engagement looks totally different across Wattpad, AO3, and Tumblr, and since Tumblr is where most of my little gremlins from all platforms gather, this feels like the best place to get a clearer picture.

So! I’m running an anonymous poll, and I’d love for you to vote honestly.

The question:

If you could choose ONE of my fics to receive consistent weekly updates—hypothetically—which one would you pick?

This is just for organizing and understanding expectations. It does not mean the winner will actually get weekly updates; it’s only a way to create a realistic priority list. Think of it like a fun ‘what if’ scenario to help me see which stories you’re most excited for, even the quieter ones with lower engagement.

Please vote for ONE fic only!

Your answer will help me spot any surprises, misunderstandings, or hidden favorites. 💛

If you could choose ONE of my fics to receive consistent weekly updates—hypothetically—which one would you pick?

25H

ASW

C:E

KGP

FMU

5STF

WGU

OFL

Voting ended onDec 12, 2025

[kikiskook]

thinking about writing catboy jimin being pegged by female reader… ଘ(੭ˊ꒳ˋ)੭✧

[kikiskook]

MOON DREAMS

05. 만월 | MANWOL (full moon)

Morning tastes like regret and instant coffee. You wake up asking questions he can't answer, questions that violate the rules you set. Then you ask the one question that shatters everything: "Why don't you like me?" You're crying. He's crying. And suddenly three years of pretending unravels in his kitchen while you sit there in his shirt, looking at him like he's broken your heart. So he tells you. He tells you everything.

☾ masterlist | moon dreams masterpost

rating ; 18+ | mature

genre ; bsf to lovers, somnophilia kink, smut, angst, porn with plot

word count ; 3k

warnings ; emotional confrontation, crying/breakdown, explicit discussion of previous sexual acts, yoongi’s guilt processing (he spirals), yoongi dropping the r word (rape) and y/n correcting him, love confessions, mutual pining reveal, implied future sexual content, happy ending

☁️ rundown ; You've always shared everything with your best friend—beds, clothes, sleep, silence. But one day, you offer him something else: yourself. Unconscious. "Do whatever you want," you say. "Just don't tell me." At first, he's stunned. He's not like that. Not a pervert. Not a creep. But when you fall asleep on his couch in nothing but his shirt, thighs bare, lips parted—he starts thinking. What if you meant it? What if he tried… just once?

a/n ; I'm not gonna lie—I'm a little emotional writing this note. This series became something I didn't fully anticipate when I started. What began as ‘let me explore consensual somnophilia in a psychologically realistic way’ became a story about trust, vulnerability, repressed feelings, and two idiots who loved each other so much they had to invent an elaborate kink scenario just to deal with it???? Chapter 5 is the reckoning, the morning after. The moment where all the careful rules and boundaries and ‘we don't talk about it’ agreements shatter because Y/N breaks. She can't keep pretending anymore. Can't keep wondering if he touched her, can't keep acting like this is just a fun fantasy experiment when what she really wants is him. To be wanted by him. To be loved by him. And Yoongi? God, Yoongi breaks too. Also, I need to be crystal clear about something because it's important: Y/N didn't invent this kink as an elaborate manipulation to get Yoongi to touch her. She's always had this kink. That’s why her lines at the end were very important. "I've had that kink since before I knew what kinks were"—that's the realest part of this whole story to me. Because that's how it actually works, right? You have these preferences, these inexplicable interests that you don't even recognize as sexual until years later when you're old enough to understand what kinks are. And suddenly you're like ‘oh. OH. That thing I've been thinking about since I was fourteen? That's a thing. That has a name.’ Y/N's somnophilia kink is real. It's hers. It existed long before Yoongi, long before she had feelings for him, long before she had the vocabulary to name it. And women deserve to experience sexuality freely without it having to be attached to a man for it to be significant, I wanted that to be clear too. And that’s why it’s so important to me she found someone she trusted enough to explore it with. Her comfort person. The rule deal was because she couldn't handle the possibility of rejection—she needed a way to give herself to him without having to hear him say no. And Yoongi took what she offered because he'd been in love with her for just as long and didn't know how else to have her. It’s beautiful. It’s also devastating. It’s a Kiki fic.

The ending lines—"It feels like kissing the moon. It feels like dreaming."—are my favorite thing I've written for this series. I won’t go into detail about it, because as always I love hearing you guys dissect my symbolism and writing choices.

To everyone who's been reading this series: thank you. Thank you for trusting me to handle this kink with care. Thank you for embracing the psychological depth, the slow burn, the guilt spirals, the emotional devastation. You wanted care, you wanted meaning—and I can only hope I gave you that.

Until the next unhinged project. ♡

Morning tastes like regret and instant coffee.

Yoongi stands at the counter, trying to remember how to be normal.

How to make coffee without his hands shaking.

How to pretend he didn’t spend the night inside you, loving you in the only way you’d let him.

The way you asked him to.

The coffee maker gurgles. You shift in bed, he hears it from the open door. Normal morning sounds in his apartment, except nothing about this is normal anymore.

Nothing has been normal since you asked him to touch you while you sleep, and he discovered he wanted to more than he wanted to breathe.

“Fuck,” you mumble, walking out, voice thick with sleep from last night. “My head.”

“Coffee’s almost ready,” he says without turning around. Neutral. Casual.

Like he’s not memorizing the sound of your voice when it’s rough from sleep.

Like he doesn’t know what you taste like.

“You’re an angel.”

Not an angel. Far from it.

Angels don’t fuck their unconscious best friends and spend the night memorizing the way they move in sleep.

Angels don’t lie awake wondering if you felt him inside you, if some part of your dreaming mind registered the way he filled you.

The way you took him.

He pulls two mugs from the cabinet and fills them, muscle memory keeping his hands steady. Paracetamol from the medicine cabinet. Glass of water. The routine of taking care of you, like he has been for years.

Like he did last night, in ways you’ll never know.

The way you asked him never to tell you.

You’re sitting on the couch when he turns around, hair a disaster and his shirt hanging loose on your frame. The same shirt he pushed up to your arms hours ago, exposing skin he’d never been allowed to touch before. Skin that still holds the phantom warmth of his hands.

“You look like shit,” he says, setting the coffee and painkillers on the coffee table.

“Feel worse.” You dry-swallow the pills and chase them with coffee, making a face at the bitterness. “Thanks.”

He sits on the edge of the couch, careful to keep distance between your bodies. Not because he doesn’t want to touch you—he wants to touch you so much it makes his teeth ache. But because touching you while you’re awake feels like a different kind of violation now.

Now that he knows what you feel like.

“Better?” he asks when you’ve finished half the mug.

“Getting there.” You lean back against his cushions, studying his face with sleep-heavy eyes. “You look tired.”

Because he didn’t sleep. Couldn’t sleep after what he’d done.

Just lay there, trying to process the fact that he’d crossed the final line you’d drawn for him.

That he’d become exactly what you’d asked him to become, and hated himself for loving it.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

Because he fucked you. Because he came inside the condom and then cleaned everything up like evidence of a crime.

Because he spent the night listening to you breathe and wondering if you’d felt him moving inside you, even unconsciously.

Because he loves you and you can only accept that love when you’re not awake to know about it.

“Mattress is uncomfortable,” he lies.

You tilt your head, considering. There’s something calculating in your expression that makes him immediately wary. The same look you get when you’re about to ask him something he doesn’t want to answer.

“Yoongi.”

“What.”

“Did you fuck me?”

The question hits him like ice water. Direct. Blunt. Exactly the kind of thing you’d never ask if you weren’t fishing for a specific answer.

If you weren’t hoping he’d say yes.

“You know I can’t answer that,” he says carefully.

Your face falls. Just slightly, but he catches it. The way disappointment flickers across your features before you school them back into casual indifference.

“Right. The rules.”

Rules you made. Rules about not wanting to know, about keeping the uncertainty, about letting him touch you however he wanted while maintaining plausible deniability between you.

Rules that are protecting both of you from having to deal with what this actually means.

But you look frustrated now. More than frustrated. You look like you’re gearing up for a fight, and Yoongi has no idea why.

“You didn’t, right?” you say, voice getting sharper. “I even wore the stupid thong and you didn’t even—”

You cut yourself off, but not before he hears what you’re really saying.

Not before he understands what the red lace was actually about.

What it was always about.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“No, what do you mean you wore it for—”

“Forget I said anything.”

But he can’t forget. Can’t ignore the way you’re looking at him now, like he’s let you down somehow.

Like you wanted him to touch you and he’s somehow disappointed you by not doing it.

Except he did touch you. Touched you everywhere. Learned the geography of your body with his hands and mouth and cock, memorized the way you responded even in sleep.

The way you wanted him, even unconscious.

“Why don’t you like me?” you ask suddenly, voice cracking slightly. “Seriously. How obvious do I have to be?”

The question stops him cold.

Because there’s no universe where you should be asking him that. No reality where you should think he doesn’t want you when he’s been wanting you so badly it’s been destroying him from the inside out.

When he’s been taking what you offered him because he couldn’t help himself.

“What are you talking about?”

“I tried to make it so easy for you.” Your voice is rising now, frustration bleeding into anger. “So that you wouldn’t even have to feel guilty. You could do whatever you wanted and we’d never have to talk about it and you seriously can’t even look at me like something else apart from your best friend?”

He sees the way your eyes go red-rimmed.

Then a tear falls.

Then another.

And now you’re crying. Angry tears that make tracks down your cheeks. Frustrated tears that tell him this conversation has been building for longer than just this morning.

That you’ve been thinking about this. Planning for it. Hoping for it.

“I don’t understand—”

“Of course you don’t understand!” You’re fully shouting now, coffee mug forgotten as you gesture wildly. “Because you’re so fucking dense when it comes to anything that isn’t spelled out for you! I’ve been throwing myself at you for years and you act like I’m just your annoying best friend who crashes on your couch!”

“You are my best friend—”

“I don’t want to be just your best friend!” The words rip out of you like they’ve been trapped behind your ribs, desperate to escape. “I haven’t wanted to be just your best friend since college! I asked you to touch me while I sleep because I thought maybe, maybe if you could have me without having to acknowledge wanting me, you’d finally—”

“Stop.”

“Stop what? Telling the truth? I’m done pretending this is normal. I’m done acting like I don’t want you to—”

“Stop.” His voice is rougher now, something breaking open in his chest. “Just stop talking.”

“Why? Does it make you uncomfortable? Good. Maybe now you know how I’ve felt for the past three years watching you—”

“I did fuck you.”

The words come out like shattered glass, cutting him on the way out.

Cutting you too, from the way you go completely still.

“What?”

“I did fuck you.” He can’t look at you. Can’t see your face when he tells you what he is. “Last night. While you were sleeping.”

Your breath catches.

“I fucked you with a condom because I didn’t want to cross more lines than I have already crossed. But I considered not using one. I didn’t want to leave evidence. Didn’t want you to wake up and know what I’d done to you because you told me you wanted to remain ignorant and I wanted to respect that—“

“Yoongi—”

“—and I hated myself every fucking minute of it,” he continues, words pouring out like blood from a wound. “Because I liked it. Because you felt so perfect and you made those sounds in your sleep and I couldn’t stop myself from wanting more.”

You’re staring at him now, shock written across your face.

“You want to know what’s wrong with you? Nothing. You want to know what’s wrong with me? Everything. You asked me to touch you and I became a fucking monster who gets off on unconscious consent.”

“It’s not—”

“It is!” He’s shouting now too, everything pouring out like moonlight breaking loose through a storm-cracked sky. “You were vulnerable and I used your body like my personal toy!”

He swallows, words choking out on his throat.

But they burst out anyway, because there’s only so long a man can survive in the orbit of the moon.

“I considered fucking you raw, Manwol. I did. I thought about it. What kind of fucked-up person does that?”

Silence.

Long enough that he starts to wonder if you heard him.

Long enough for him to realize he’s about to lose you forever.

He looks up then, meets your eyes, sees the shock and hurt and something else he can’t name.

“You’ve poisoned me,” words tumble out, cracking. “You’ve ruined me. You’ve made me into a piece of shit who enjoys taking advantage of his unconscious best friend, and I can’t—I can’t even feel bad about it because you asked me to do it.”

The tears come then, hot and angry and shameful.

Because he’s crying in front of you like a child, breaking down because he finally told you the truth about what you made him be.

What he is.

What he’s always been.

“You asked me to touch you however I wanted,” he says through the tears. “So I did. I touched you everywhere. I put my mouth on you. I fucked you until I came and then I cleaned everything up with shaking hands.”

He struggles to shallow around the knot lodged in his fucking throat.

“And I enjoyed it. That’s the part I can’t—I fucking—enjoyed it.” He chokes. “Every—every second of it. Your mouth, your body, the way you looked peaceful and trusting—I got off on it, Manwol. I wanted more. I want more.”

You’re crying too now, but differently. Quieter. Like you’re processing what he just told you.

Like you’re trying to figure out if this changes everything or nothing at all.

“And the worst part,” he continues, “the absolute worst part is that I love you. I’ve been in love with you for years and I can’t tell you because someone who’s in love with someone doesn’t get off on doing shit on then whilst they sleep. What kind of person needs permission to rape their best friend just to figure out their feelings?”

“It wasn’t rape.” Your voice is small, broken, but firm. “It wasn’t rape, Yoongi.”

“Felt like it.”

“Well it wasn’t.” You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand, makeup smearing. “I consented. It’s how it works in consensual somnophilia. You consent beforehand, you talk the rules first. And I did. I asked you to do it. I set the rule I didn’t want to know. But I wanted you to do it.”

“You wanted me to want you.”

“I wanted you to have me while I sleep, Yoongi.” You break. “I’ve had this kink for ages. And you’re the only man I’d ever trust with it. I told you. The rule was just insurance so you could help me with my fantasy without having to worry about our friendship being ruined.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m in love with you too, you fucking idiot.”

The words land right across his chest.

Because there’s no way you just said that.

No way you’re looking at him with tears in your eyes and love on your face after he just confessed to being the worst kind of person.

After he just told you he used your body while you slept and liked it.

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because I just told you I—”

“You told me you did exactly what I asked you to do.” You lean forward, close enough that he can smell the coffee on your breath. “I wanted to explore my kink safely, with my comfort person, and you provided.”

“I told you I’m a monster.”

“You told me you’re human.”

He stares at you. At your tear-stained face and swollen eyes and the way you’re looking at him like he hasn’t just confessed to being everything wrong with the world.

Like you still want him, even knowing what he’s done.

What he’s capable of.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve had that kink since before I knew what kinks were,” you say quietly. “But I’ve never trusted anyone enough to ask for it before. Never felt safe enough to be that vulnerable with someone.”

“But you trusted me.”

“I trust you, present tense.” You squeeze his fingers. “And you gave me exactly what I needed. What I’ve been needing for years.”

“I used you.”

“I asked you to use me.”

“I could have hurt you.”

“But you didn’t.” You’re crying again, but softer now. “You were careful with me. I trusted you with my fantasy and you helped me.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. Doesn’t know how to process the idea that maybe he didn’t ruin everything. Maybe he didn’t become a monster.

Maybe he just became what you needed him to become.

“I love you too,” you say again, like you can see him struggling to believe it. “I’ve loved you since college. Since you let me cry on your shoulder after that asshole Jinhoo broke up with me. Since you stayed up all night making sure I didn’t do anything stupid.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“It means I’ve been in love with you for three years and too scared to tell you because I didn’t think you could want someone as fucked up as me.”

“You’re not fucked up.”

“I asked my best friend to help me with my weirdest kink and made up a rule because I couldn’t handle the possibility of rejection.”

When you put it like that, it does sound pretty fucked up. But not in a bad way. Not in a way that makes him love you less.

If anything, it makes him love you more.

“So we’re both fucked up,” he says finally.

“Yeah.”

“And we’re both in love.”

“Apparently.”

“And I did fuck you last night.”

“Thank god.” You laugh, watery and broken but real. “I was starting to think I wasn’t pretty enough or something.”

“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Thing?”

“Person. Woman. Sorry, figure of speech.”

You lean into him then, and he lets you. Lets you press against his chest and tuck your head under his chin like you belong there.

Like you’ve always belonged there.

“I’m sorry,” he says into your hair.

“For what?”

“For making you think I didn’t want you.”

“I’m sorry for making you think you were a monster for wanting me.”

“We’re idiots.”

“The biggest idiots.”

You sit like that for a long time, holding each other and crying quietly. Not the angry, frustrated tears from before, but relieved tears. Exhausted tears.

Tears that feel like letting go of something heavy you’ve been carrying for too long.

“So what happens now?” you ask eventually.

“I don’t know.”

“Can I stay?”

“You’re always staying.”

“No, I mean stay. With you. Like this.”

Like this. Like someone who loves him and knows he loves her back. Like someone who doesn’t have to sleep alone anymore, who doesn’t have to pretend she doesn’t want him when she’s awake.

Like someone he can touch whenever he wants, however he wants, with full knowledge and consent and love.

“Yeah,” he says. “You can stay.”

“Good.” You pull back to look at him, eyes still red but smiling now. “Because I wasn’t planning on leaving anyway.”

“Presumptuous.”

“I know what I want.”

“And what’s that?”

“You. Awake and asleep. Conscious and unconscious. All the ways you’ll let me have you.”

The words send heat straight through him, because now that everything is out in the open, now that you both know how you feel, there are so many possibilities.

So many ways to want each other.

“All the ways,” he agrees.

“Good.”

You kiss him then, soft and salt-sweet from tears. The first kiss you’ve shared while you’re both awake, both aware, both choosing it.

It tastes like forgiveness.

Like coming home.

Like the beginning of something that doesn’t have to happen in secret anymore.

When you pull away, you’re both smiling through your tears.

“I love you,” he says, because he can say it now.

Because you know and you love him back and he doesn’t have to whisper it to your sleeping form anymore.

“I love you too.”

“Even knowing what I did?”

“Especially knowing what you did.”

And maybe that makes you both a little fucked up. But you’re fucked up together now, which seems like the best possible outcome.

The only outcome that matters.

“Come here,” you say, tugging him back toward the cushions.

“We just got up.”

“So? We have three years to make up for.”

“Three years is a lot.”

“Good thing we have time.”

He lets you pull him down, lets you arrange him against the couch and curl up on his chest like you belong there. Like this is where you’ve always belonged.

“Can I ask you something?” you say against his throat.

“Anything.”

“Next time you fuck me while I’m sleeping—”

“There’s going to be a next time?”

“Oh, there’s definitely going to be a next time. And a time after that. And probably a time after that. I wasn’t talking smack when I said I have a somnophilia kink, Yoongi.”

“But next time we talk about it afterwards.”

You smile. “Yeah, we do.”

The thought makes him hard already, which should probably be embarrassing but isn’t. Not when you’re looking at him like you want to devour him.

Like you want him to devour you right back.

“What’s your question?”

“Can you wake me up at the end? So I can see how you look when you come?”

The request sends fire straight through his veins, because fuck. Fuck, you’re perfect.

“I can do that.”

“Good.” You press a kiss to his throat, soft and promising. “Because I want to remember it this time.”

“Remember what?”

“How it feels when you love me.”

And that’s exactly what it was, he realizes. Not using you. Not taking advantage.

Loving you.

The only way you’d let him until now.

But now he can love you awake too. Can love you conscious and willing and looking right at him while he does it.

Can love you the way you both deserve.

“I can show you that awake too,” he says.

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

And when he rolls you beneath him, kissing you deep and desperate and wide awake, it feels like kissing the moon.

It feels like dreaming.

©️ kikiskook aka @jungkoode 2025.

do not translate. do not repost.

TL: @billy-jeans23 @hoelychildofgod @kam9404 @myantcha @yoongiiuu93 @gojomyoneandonly @tsibba01 @jazzluvrr @questioninglifeismypurpose @withmuchluv-tannie @lepples2015 @madiilolz @rntcdsc @dwahaaus @billy-jeans23 @kittycat1dsn @amarawayne @radicaltrashwrites @redcherrytea @dprlive230 @hanniescherries @mar-lo-pap @queenbloody @littlestarstinyseven @yunamay1248 @supernoonanyc @ddaengielle @xmarrx @stydixmxrtinski @shadowyjellyfishfest @ilikekpop-c @xxunholyqueenxx @yuyu0y11 @inconsistentpieceofmess @yourlittleslutcums @sadbitchenergy @vespersbells @naesarang07 @iam-wh0 @arrctica @eclipsedfairy @starsyoongi @victorialoce @icantsleephomesick @jjklvrapobangpo7 @jazzluvrr @svnk1ssd @tremblementdesfleurs @teasykes

[kikiskook]

@meigalaxy @viahjgd @mindurbuzznezz @occeanawave @mellyyyyyyx @ot7girl4l @mintyunho @lilbny-blog @yoongiminnie444 @mapleleafsamurai @itssluthourhere @03galaxywriter03 @inconsistentpieceofmess @joonie1213 @dropdeadbec @fancypeacepersona @pinklasagna04 @thelilbutifulthings

[kikiskook]

MOON DREAMS

05. 만월 | MANWOL (full moon)

Morning tastes like regret and instant coffee. You wake up asking questions he can't answer, questions that violate the rules you set. Then you ask the one question that shatters everything: "Why don't you like me?" You're crying. He's crying. And suddenly three years of pretending unravels in his kitchen while you sit there in his shirt, looking at him like he's broken your heart. So he tells you. He tells you everything.

☾ masterlist | moon dreams masterpost

rating ; 18+ | mature

genre ; bsf to lovers, somnophilia kink, smut, angst, porn with plot

word count ; 3k

warnings ; emotional confrontation, crying/breakdown, explicit discussion of previous sexual acts, yoongi’s guilt processing (he spirals), yoongi dropping the r word (rape) and y/n correcting him, love confessions, mutual pining reveal, implied future sexual content, happy ending

☁️ rundown ; You've always shared everything with your best friend—beds, clothes, sleep, silence. But one day, you offer him something else: yourself. Unconscious. "Do whatever you want," you say. "Just don't tell me." At first, he's stunned. He's not like that. Not a pervert. Not a creep. But when you fall asleep on his couch in nothing but his shirt, thighs bare, lips parted—he starts thinking. What if you meant it? What if he tried… just once?

a/n ; I'm not gonna lie—I'm a little emotional writing this note. This series became something I didn't fully anticipate when I started. What began as ‘let me explore consensual somnophilia in a psychologically realistic way’ became a story about trust, vulnerability, repressed feelings, and two idiots who loved each other so much they had to invent an elaborate kink scenario just to deal with it???? Chapter 5 is the reckoning, the morning after. The moment where all the careful rules and boundaries and ‘we don't talk about it’ agreements shatter because Y/N breaks. She can't keep pretending anymore. Can't keep wondering if he touched her, can't keep acting like this is just a fun fantasy experiment when what she really wants is him. To be wanted by him. To be loved by him. And Yoongi? God, Yoongi breaks too. Also, I need to be crystal clear about something because it's important: Y/N didn't invent this kink as an elaborate manipulation to get Yoongi to touch her. She's always had this kink. That’s why her lines at the end were very important. "I've had that kink since before I knew what kinks were"—that's the realest part of this whole story to me. Because that's how it actually works, right? You have these preferences, these inexplicable interests that you don't even recognize as sexual until years later when you're old enough to understand what kinks are. And suddenly you're like ‘oh. OH. That thing I've been thinking about since I was fourteen? That's a thing. That has a name.’ Y/N's somnophilia kink is real. It's hers. It existed long before Yoongi, long before she had feelings for him, long before she had the vocabulary to name it. And women deserve to experience sexuality freely without it having to be attached to a man for it to be significant, I wanted that to be clear too. And that’s why it’s so important to me she found someone she trusted enough to explore it with. Her comfort person. The rule deal was because she couldn't handle the possibility of rejection—she needed a way to give herself to him without having to hear him say no. And Yoongi took what she offered because he'd been in love with her for just as long and didn't know how else to have her. It’s beautiful. It’s also devastating. It’s a Kiki fic.

The ending lines—"It feels like kissing the moon. It feels like dreaming."—are my favorite thing I've written for this series. I won’t go into detail about it, because as always I love hearing you guys dissect my symbolism and writing choices.

To everyone who's been reading this series: thank you. Thank you for trusting me to handle this kink with care. Thank you for embracing the psychological depth, the slow burn, the guilt spirals, the emotional devastation. You wanted care, you wanted meaning—and I can only hope I gave you that.

Until the next unhinged project. ♡

Morning tastes like regret and instant coffee.

Yoongi stands at the counter, trying to remember how to be normal.

How to make coffee without his hands shaking.

How to pretend he didn’t spend the night inside you, loving you in the only way you’d let him.

The way you asked him to.

The coffee maker gurgles. You shift in bed, he hears it from the open door. Normal morning sounds in his apartment, except nothing about this is normal anymore.

Nothing has been normal since you asked him to touch you while you sleep, and he discovered he wanted to more than he wanted to breathe.

“Fuck,” you mumble, walking out, voice thick with sleep from last night. “My head.”

“Coffee’s almost ready,” he says without turning around. Neutral. Casual.

Like he’s not memorizing the sound of your voice when it’s rough from sleep.

Like he doesn’t know what you taste like.

“You’re an angel.”

Not an angel. Far from it.

Angels don’t fuck their unconscious best friends and spend the night memorizing the way they move in sleep.

Angels don’t lie awake wondering if you felt him inside you, if some part of your dreaming mind registered the way he filled you.

The way you took him.

He pulls two mugs from the cabinet and fills them, muscle memory keeping his hands steady. Paracetamol from the medicine cabinet. Glass of water. The routine of taking care of you, like he has been for years.

Like he did last night, in ways you’ll never know.

The way you asked him never to tell you.

You’re sitting on the couch when he turns around, hair a disaster and his shirt hanging loose on your frame. The same shirt he pushed up to your arms hours ago, exposing skin he’d never been allowed to touch before. Skin that still holds the phantom warmth of his hands.

“You look like shit,” he says, setting the coffee and painkillers on the coffee table.

“Feel worse.” You dry-swallow the pills and chase them with coffee, making a face at the bitterness. “Thanks.”

He sits on the edge of the couch, careful to keep distance between your bodies. Not because he doesn’t want to touch you—he wants to touch you so much it makes his teeth ache. But because touching you while you’re awake feels like a different kind of violation now.

Now that he knows what you feel like.

“Better?” he asks when you’ve finished half the mug.

“Getting there.” You lean back against his cushions, studying his face with sleep-heavy eyes. “You look tired.”

Because he didn’t sleep. Couldn’t sleep after what he’d done.

Just lay there, trying to process the fact that he’d crossed the final line you’d drawn for him.

That he’d become exactly what you’d asked him to become, and hated himself for loving it.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

Because he fucked you. Because he came inside the condom and then cleaned everything up like evidence of a crime.

Because he spent the night listening to you breathe and wondering if you’d felt him moving inside you, even unconsciously.

Because he loves you and you can only accept that love when you’re not awake to know about it.

“Mattress is uncomfortable,” he lies.

You tilt your head, considering. There’s something calculating in your expression that makes him immediately wary. The same look you get when you’re about to ask him something he doesn’t want to answer.

“Yoongi.”

“What.”

“Did you fuck me?”

The question hits him like ice water. Direct. Blunt. Exactly the kind of thing you’d never ask if you weren’t fishing for a specific answer.

If you weren’t hoping he’d say yes.

“You know I can’t answer that,” he says carefully.

Your face falls. Just slightly, but he catches it. The way disappointment flickers across your features before you school them back into casual indifference.

“Right. The rules.”

Rules you made. Rules about not wanting to know, about keeping the uncertainty, about letting him touch you however he wanted while maintaining plausible deniability between you.

Rules that are protecting both of you from having to deal with what this actually means.

But you look frustrated now. More than frustrated. You look like you’re gearing up for a fight, and Yoongi has no idea why.

“You didn’t, right?” you say, voice getting sharper. “I even wore the stupid thong and you didn’t even—”

You cut yourself off, but not before he hears what you’re really saying.

Not before he understands what the red lace was actually about.

What it was always about.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“No, what do you mean you wore it for—”

“Forget I said anything.”

But he can’t forget. Can’t ignore the way you’re looking at him now, like he’s let you down somehow.

Like you wanted him to touch you and he’s somehow disappointed you by not doing it.

Except he did touch you. Touched you everywhere. Learned the geography of your body with his hands and mouth and cock, memorized the way you responded even in sleep.

The way you wanted him, even unconscious.

“Why don’t you like me?” you ask suddenly, voice cracking slightly. “Seriously. How obvious do I have to be?”

The question stops him cold.

Because there’s no universe where you should be asking him that. No reality where you should think he doesn’t want you when he’s been wanting you so badly it’s been destroying him from the inside out.

When he’s been taking what you offered him because he couldn’t help himself.

“What are you talking about?”

“I tried to make it so easy for you.” Your voice is rising now, frustration bleeding into anger. “So that you wouldn’t even have to feel guilty. You could do whatever you wanted and we’d never have to talk about it and you seriously can’t even look at me like something else apart from your best friend?”

He sees the way your eyes go red-rimmed.

Then a tear falls.

Then another.

And now you’re crying. Angry tears that make tracks down your cheeks. Frustrated tears that tell him this conversation has been building for longer than just this morning.

That you’ve been thinking about this. Planning for it. Hoping for it.

“I don’t understand—”

“Of course you don’t understand!” You’re fully shouting now, coffee mug forgotten as you gesture wildly. “Because you’re so fucking dense when it comes to anything that isn’t spelled out for you! I’ve been throwing myself at you for years and you act like I’m just your annoying best friend who crashes on your couch!”

“You are my best friend—”

“I don’t want to be just your best friend!” The words rip out of you like they’ve been trapped behind your ribs, desperate to escape. “I haven’t wanted to be just your best friend since college! I asked you to touch me while I sleep because I thought maybe, maybe if you could have me without having to acknowledge wanting me, you’d finally—”

“Stop.”

“Stop what? Telling the truth? I’m done pretending this is normal. I’m done acting like I don’t want you to—”

“Stop.” His voice is rougher now, something breaking open in his chest. “Just stop talking.”

“Why? Does it make you uncomfortable? Good. Maybe now you know how I’ve felt for the past three years watching you—”

“I did fuck you.”

The words come out like shattered glass, cutting him on the way out.

Cutting you too, from the way you go completely still.

“What?”

“I did fuck you.” He can’t look at you. Can’t see your face when he tells you what he is. “Last night. While you were sleeping.”

Your breath catches.

“I fucked you with a condom because I didn’t want to cross more lines than I have already crossed. But I considered not using one. I didn’t want to leave evidence. Didn’t want you to wake up and know what I’d done to you because you told me you wanted to remain ignorant and I wanted to respect that—“

“Yoongi—”

“—and I hated myself every fucking minute of it,” he continues, words pouring out like blood from a wound. “Because I liked it. Because you felt so perfect and you made those sounds in your sleep and I couldn’t stop myself from wanting more.”

You’re staring at him now, shock written across your face.

“You want to know what’s wrong with you? Nothing. You want to know what’s wrong with me? Everything. You asked me to touch you and I became a fucking monster who gets off on unconscious consent.”

“It’s not—”

“It is!” He’s shouting now too, everything pouring out like moonlight breaking loose through a storm-cracked sky. “You were vulnerable and I used your body like my personal toy!”

He swallows, words choking out on his throat.

But they burst out anyway, because there’s only so long a man can survive in the orbit of the moon.

“I considered fucking you raw, Manwol. I did. I thought about it. What kind of fucked-up person does that?”

Silence.

Long enough that he starts to wonder if you heard him.

Long enough for him to realize he’s about to lose you forever.

He looks up then, meets your eyes, sees the shock and hurt and something else he can’t name.

“You’ve poisoned me,” words tumble out, cracking. “You’ve ruined me. You’ve made me into a piece of shit who enjoys taking advantage of his unconscious best friend, and I can’t—I can’t even feel bad about it because you asked me to do it.”

The tears come then, hot and angry and shameful.

Because he’s crying in front of you like a child, breaking down because he finally told you the truth about what you made him be.

What he is.

What he’s always been.

“You asked me to touch you however I wanted,” he says through the tears. “So I did. I touched you everywhere. I put my mouth on you. I fucked you until I came and then I cleaned everything up with shaking hands.”

He struggles to shallow around the knot lodged in his fucking throat.

“And I enjoyed it. That’s the part I can’t—I fucking—enjoyed it.” He chokes. “Every—every second of it. Your mouth, your body, the way you looked peaceful and trusting—I got off on it, Manwol. I wanted more. I want more.”

You’re crying too now, but differently. Quieter. Like you’re processing what he just told you.

Like you’re trying to figure out if this changes everything or nothing at all.

“And the worst part,” he continues, “the absolute worst part is that I love you. I’ve been in love with you for years and I can’t tell you because someone who’s in love with someone doesn’t get off on doing shit on then whilst they sleep. What kind of person needs permission to rape their best friend just to figure out their feelings?”

“It wasn’t rape.” Your voice is small, broken, but firm. “It wasn’t rape, Yoongi.”

“Felt like it.”

“Well it wasn’t.” You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand, makeup smearing. “I consented. It’s how it works in consensual somnophilia. You consent beforehand, you talk the rules first. And I did. I asked you to do it. I set the rule I didn’t want to know. But I wanted you to do it.”

“You wanted me to want you.”

“I wanted you to have me while I sleep, Yoongi.” You break. “I’ve had this kink for ages. And you’re the only man I’d ever trust with it. I told you. The rule was just insurance so you could help me with my fantasy without having to worry about our friendship being ruined.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m in love with you too, you fucking idiot.”

The words land right across his chest.

Because there’s no way you just said that.

No way you’re looking at him with tears in your eyes and love on your face after he just confessed to being the worst kind of person.

After he just told you he used your body while you slept and liked it.

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because I just told you I—”

“You told me you did exactly what I asked you to do.” You lean forward, close enough that he can smell the coffee on your breath. “I wanted to explore my kink safely, with my comfort person, and you provided.”

“I told you I’m a monster.”

“You told me you’re human.”

He stares at you. At your tear-stained face and swollen eyes and the way you’re looking at him like he hasn’t just confessed to being everything wrong with the world.

Like you still want him, even knowing what he’s done.

What he’s capable of.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ve had that kink since before I knew what kinks were,” you say quietly. “But I’ve never trusted anyone enough to ask for it before. Never felt safe enough to be that vulnerable with someone.”

“But you trusted me.”

“I trust you, present tense.” You squeeze his fingers. “And you gave me exactly what I needed. What I’ve been needing for years.”

“I used you.”

“I asked you to use me.”

“I could have hurt you.”

“But you didn’t.” You’re crying again, but softer now. “You were careful with me. I trusted you with my fantasy and you helped me.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that. Doesn’t know how to process the idea that maybe he didn’t ruin everything. Maybe he didn’t become a monster.

Maybe he just became what you needed him to become.

“I love you too,” you say again, like you can see him struggling to believe it. “I’ve loved you since college. Since you let me cry on your shoulder after that asshole Jinhoo broke up with me. Since you stayed up all night making sure I didn’t do anything stupid.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“It means I’ve been in love with you for three years and too scared to tell you because I didn’t think you could want someone as fucked up as me.”

“You’re not fucked up.”

“I asked my best friend to help me with my weirdest kink and made up a rule because I couldn’t handle the possibility of rejection.”

When you put it like that, it does sound pretty fucked up. But not in a bad way. Not in a way that makes him love you less.

If anything, it makes him love you more.

“So we’re both fucked up,” he says finally.

“Yeah.”

“And we’re both in love.”

“Apparently.”

“And I did fuck you last night.”

“Thank god.” You laugh, watery and broken but real. “I was starting to think I wasn’t pretty enough or something.”

“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Thing?”

“Person. Woman. Sorry, figure of speech.”

You lean into him then, and he lets you. Lets you press against his chest and tuck your head under his chin like you belong there.

Like you’ve always belonged there.

“I’m sorry,” he says into your hair.

“For what?”

“For making you think I didn’t want you.”

“I’m sorry for making you think you were a monster for wanting me.”

“We’re idiots.”

“The biggest idiots.”

You sit like that for a long time, holding each other and crying quietly. Not the angry, frustrated tears from before, but relieved tears. Exhausted tears.

Tears that feel like letting go of something heavy you’ve been carrying for too long.

“So what happens now?” you ask eventually.

“I don’t know.”

“Can I stay?”

“You’re always staying.”

“No, I mean stay. With you. Like this.”

Like this. Like someone who loves him and knows he loves her back. Like someone who doesn’t have to sleep alone anymore, who doesn’t have to pretend she doesn’t want him when she’s awake.

Like someone he can touch whenever he wants, however he wants, with full knowledge and consent and love.

“Yeah,” he says. “You can stay.”

“Good.” You pull back to look at him, eyes still red but smiling now. “Because I wasn’t planning on leaving anyway.”

“Presumptuous.”

“I know what I want.”

“And what’s that?”

“You. Awake and asleep. Conscious and unconscious. All the ways you’ll let me have you.”

The words send heat straight through him, because now that everything is out in the open, now that you both know how you feel, there are so many possibilities.

So many ways to want each other.

“All the ways,” he agrees.

“Good.”

You kiss him then, soft and salt-sweet from tears. The first kiss you’ve shared while you’re both awake, both aware, both choosing it.

It tastes like forgiveness.

Like coming home.

Like the beginning of something that doesn’t have to happen in secret anymore.

When you pull away, you’re both smiling through your tears.

“I love you,” he says, because he can say it now.

Because you know and you love him back and he doesn’t have to whisper it to your sleeping form anymore.

“I love you too.”

“Even knowing what I did?”

“Especially knowing what you did.”

And maybe that makes you both a little fucked up. But you’re fucked up together now, which seems like the best possible outcome.

The only outcome that matters.

“Come here,” you say, tugging him back toward the cushions.

“We just got up.”

“So? We have three years to make up for.”

“Three years is a lot.”

“Good thing we have time.”

He lets you pull him down, lets you arrange him against the couch and curl up on his chest like you belong there. Like this is where you’ve always belonged.

“Can I ask you something?” you say against his throat.

“Anything.”

“Next time you fuck me while I’m sleeping—”

“There’s going to be a next time?”

“Oh, there’s definitely going to be a next time. And a time after that. And probably a time after that. I wasn’t talking smack when I said I have a somnophilia kink, Yoongi.”

“But next time we talk about it afterwards.”

You smile. “Yeah, we do.”

The thought makes him hard already, which should probably be embarrassing but isn’t. Not when you’re looking at him like you want to devour him.

Like you want him to devour you right back.

“What’s your question?”

“Can you wake me up at the end? So I can see how you look when you come?”

The request sends fire straight through his veins, because fuck. Fuck, you’re perfect.

“I can do that.”

“Good.” You press a kiss to his throat, soft and promising. “Because I want to remember it this time.”

“Remember what?”

“How it feels when you love me.”

And that’s exactly what it was, he realizes. Not using you. Not taking advantage.

Loving you.

The only way you’d let him until now.

But now he can love you awake too. Can love you conscious and willing and looking right at him while he does it.

Can love you the way you both deserve.

“I can show you that awake too,” he says.

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

And when he rolls you beneath him, kissing you deep and desperate and wide awake, it feels like kissing the moon.

It feels like dreaming.

©️ kikiskook aka @jungkoode 2025.

do not translate. do not repost.

TL: @billy-jeans23 @hoelychildofgod @kam9404 @myantcha @yoongiiuu93 @gojomyoneandonly @tsibba01 @jazzluvrr @questioninglifeismypurpose @withmuchluv-tannie @lepples2015 @madiilolz @rntcdsc @dwahaaus @billy-jeans23 @kittycat1dsn @amarawayne @radicaltrashwrites @redcherrytea @dprlive230 @hanniescherries @mar-lo-pap @queenbloody @littlestarstinyseven @yunamay1248 @supernoonanyc @ddaengielle @xmarrx @stydixmxrtinski @shadowyjellyfishfest @ilikekpop-c @xxunholyqueenxx @yuyu0y11 @inconsistentpieceofmess @yourlittleslutcums @sadbitchenergy @vespersbells @naesarang07 @iam-wh0 @arrctica @eclipsedfairy @starsyoongi @victorialoce @icantsleephomesick @jjklvrapobangpo7 @jazzluvrr @svnk1ssd @tremblementdesfleurs @teasykes

[kikiskook]

MOON DREAMS

04. 상현 | SANGHYEON (waxing gibbous)

Red lace. That's what you're wearing under his sheets when he climbs into bed. Just a thong. Nothing else. He sees it when you shift in your sleep, sees the way it sits on your hips like an invitation he didn't ask for but can't ignore. His hands shake. His brain screams at him to stop, to leave, to sleep on the fucking couch. He doesn't listen. He never listens anymore.

☾ masterlist | moon dreams masterpost

rating ; 18+ | explicit

genre ; bsf to lovers, somnophilia kink, smut, angst, porn with plot

word count ; 5,7k

warnings ; explicit sexual content, consensual somnophilia, protected sex, condom use, penetrative sex while unconscious, condom use, female oral sex (giving), (cunnilingus), severe guilt spiral, obsessive internal monologue, emotional breakdown, evidence cleanup/paranoia

☁️ rundown ; You've always shared everything with your best friend—beds, clothes, sleep, silence. But one day, you offer him something else: yourself. Unconscious. "Do whatever you want," you say. "Just don't tell me." At first, he's stunned. He's not like that. Not a pervert. Not a creep. But when you fall asleep on his couch in nothing but his shirt, thighs bare, lips parted—he starts thinking. What if you meant it? What if he tried… just once?

a/n ; So. We're here. Chapter 4. The waxing gibbous. Almost full. Almost complete. Almost at the breaking point. This is THE chapter. The one where Yoongi stops pretending this is about curiosity or experimentation or doing a favor. This is where he admits—to himself, if not to Y/N—that he wants this. That it's become his fantasy. That he's completely, irrevocably fucked. Let's talk about the red thong. Because YES, it's a thing. Y/N knows exactly what she's doing. She's not innocently sleeping in lingerie by accident—she's testing him. Seeing if he'll take what she offered. Seeing how far he'll go. She can't ask directly (those are the rules), but she can provide... let's call them opportunities. And Yoongi? He walks right into it. Because he’s a man and men are simple creatures. Because of course he does. He's been spiraling for weeks, thinking about this constantly, and now she's literally presenting herself in the most obvious way possible. And OH MY GODDDD that moment. When you read you’ll know. But THAT is the moment this stops being just a kink fic and becomes something else entirely. Because it’s when she can't hear him. When it doesn't count. When it's safe. Except it does count. It counts to him. And that breaks him. The fact that he's doing this to her and he can't stop and he doesn't even want to stop anymore. Also—because I know someone will ask—yes, he used a condom. Yes, that was intentional. Yoongi still has some moral boundaries left, even if they're Swiss cheese at this point. The condom represents the last vestige of his attempt to do this ‘responsibly’ (as if there's a responsible way to fuck your unconscious best friend, but you know what I mean). It's also practical—no pregnancy scares in this story, we have enough emotional devastation to deal with.

One more chapter. One more moon phase. And then everything falls apart.

Or does it?

Hehehehe. ♡

You show up at his apartment on a Wednesday with takeout and that look on your face.

The one that means you’re planning something.

“I brought japchae,” you announce, kicking off your shoes and heading straight for his couch like it’s your birth right. “The good kind. From that place near your studio.”

Yoongi eyes you suspiciously. “What do you want?”

“Why do I have to want something? Maybe I’m just being nice.”

“You’re never just nice.”

“Rude.” But you’re grinning as you say it, already unpacking containers onto his coffee table. “Can’t I just want to have dinner with my best friend?”

“You could. But you don’t.” He settles onto the couch beside you, accepting the chopsticks you hand him. “So what is it?”

You’re quiet for a moment, focused on your food in a way that’s too measured to be genuine.

Then: “Have you thought about it?”

“Thought about what?”

“You know what.”

He does know.

Has thought about almost nothing else for weeks now.

But he’s not about to admit that.

“You said you didn’t want to know," he sighs.

“I said I didn’t want to know if you did anything.” You look at him sideways, expression unreadable. “Doesn’t mean I can’t be curious about whether you’ve thought about it.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It’s really not.”

Yoongi takes a bite of japchae and doesn’t answer.

Because this is dangerous territory and you’re fishing, testing boundaries he’s not sure exist anymore.

Trying to figure out if he’s taken what you offered without actually asking him to break the rule you set.

It’s so quintessentially you he almost groans.

“So?” you prompt. “Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Thought about it. Imagined it.” You set down your chopsticks, turning to face him fully. “Come on, Yoongi. It’s been weeks. You can’t tell me you haven’t at least considered it.”

“You said you didn’t want to know.”

“And you’re not telling me anything.” You lean closer, eyes bright. “I’m asking if you’ve thought about touching me while I sleep. That’s it. Just a hypothetical question.”

“There’s nothing hypothetical about it.”

“So you have thought about it.”

He wants to throw the japchae at you.

Wants to tell you to stop playing games, stop testing him, stop making this harder than it already is.

But instead he just looks at you, taking in the way you’re watching him with that small smile, like you already know the answer.

Like you’ve always known.

“I’m not having this conversation,” he says finally.

“Why not?”

“Because you set the rules. And the rules say we don’t talk about it.”

“I never said we couldn’t talk about thinking about it.” You groan. “I just said I didn’t want to know what you actually did. Big difference.”

“Not that big.”

“Huge difference. Massive.” You pick up your chopsticks again, twirling noodles like this is just casual dinner conversation. “Like, for example, I could tell you I’ve been thinking about it too. Wondering if you’ve touched me. Wondering how you touched me, if you did. Where. For how long.”

Yoongi nearly chokes on his food.

“What?”

“See? That’s me thinking about it. Not me asking if you actually did anything.” You take a bite, completely unbothered. “Those are different things.”

“They’re really not.”

“They really are.” You’re watching him again, studying his face like you’re trying to read his mind. “You look stressed. Are you stressed?”

“I’m not stressed.”

“You’re definitely stressed.”

“I’m eating japchae.”

“You’re stress-eating japchae. Not the same.” You set down your food again, shifting closer. “Yoongi. Real talk for a second. Are you okay?”

The question catches him off guard.

Because you sound genuinely concerned now, the teasing edge gone from your voice. Like you’re actually worried about him instead of just trying to get information.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“You sure? Because I know I kind of… dropped a lot on you. With the whole somnophilia thing.” You’re fidgeting now, picking at the hem of your shirt. “And I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything. Or like I’m expecting anything. I just… wanted to put it out there. As an option.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” You look at him properly now, and there’s something doubtful in your expression that makes his chest tight. “Because I’ve been thinking—maybe I shouldn’t have asked. Maybe it was too weird. Too much. Too—”

“It wasn’t too much.”

“But you haven’t—” You stop yourself, biting your lip. “Sorry. I’m not supposed to ask that.”

“Then don’t.”

“I’m just curious.”

“You’re always curious.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It’s a thing,” Yoongi says, which is not an answer but also completely accurate. “It’s just… you, I guess. You’re always pushing, trying to figure out what people are thinking.”

You’re quiet for a moment, considering.

Then you speak again. “You’re impossible to read, you know? You could be thinking literally anything and I’d have no idea.”

“That’s the point.”

“It’s frustrating.”

“Good.”

You laugh at that, real and genuine, and some of the tension breaks. “You’re an asshole.”

“Didn’t stop you from befriending me.”

“You’re right it didn’t.” You smile as you say it, reaching for your food again. “Okay, fine. I’ll stop fishing. But for the record—I wasn’t lying when I said I think about it too.”

“About what?”

“About whether you’ve touched me.” You say it casually, like it’s not big deal when it is. “I try to notice things when I wake up. Like if my clothes are different, or if I’m positioned weird, or if there’s any… evidence.”

“Evidence.”

“You know what I mean.”

He does know.

Knows exactly what you mean. Knows you’ve been trying to piece together whether he’s taken what you offered. Trying to figure out if he’s the kind of person who would.

The kind of person he is.

“And?” he asks, because apparently he’s a masochist.

“And nothing. I can never tell.” You sound almost disappointed. “Either you’re really good at covering your tracks, or you haven’t done anything. And I set the rules myself. I can’t ask which one it is.”

“No, you can’t.”

“But I want to.”

“I know you do.”

“But I won’t.” You look at him again, and the skin around your eyes crinkles the way it does when you genuinely smile. “Because the not knowing is kind of… nice. In a weird way. Like Schrödinger’s cat.”

Yoongi nearly drops his chopsticks.

“What?”

“Schrödinger’s cat. You know, the thought experiment.” You pick at your food, absentminded. “Like, maybe you’ve touched me, maybe you haven’t. Both possibilities exist at the same time until I observe it. Until I know for sure. And as long as I don’t know, both versions are real.”

He stares at you.

Because of course.

Of course you’d reference the exact same thought experiment he used to justify this to himself. Of course you’d understand the quantum mechanics of moral ambiguity.

Of course you’d get it.

“You’ve been thinking about this a lot,” he says.

“I told you I have.” You shrug, glancing at your noodles. “It’s interesting. The whole concept. Like, I gave you permission to touch me however you want while I sleep. But I also said I don’t want to know if you do. So in my head, there’s this constant possibility that you’re doing it. That you’ve done it. That you’re thinking about doing it. And all those possibilities exist at the same time.”

“That’s not how quantum mechanics works.”

“It’s exactly how quantum mechanics works. Don’t mansplain physics to me.”

“I’m not mansplaining—”

“You literally are.” But you’re laughing as you say it. “The point is, I like the uncertainty. The not knowing. It’s… exciting.”

“Exciting.”

“Yeah. Like, every time I wake up in your bed, there’s this moment where I wonder if you touched me.” You lean back against the couch, eyes on the ceiling. “And I’ll never know for sure. That’s the best part.”

Yoongi doesn’t know what to say to that.

Doesn’t know how to process that you’ve been thinking about this the same way he has.

That you’ve been wondering and trying to piece together the truth while simultaneously enjoying the mystery of not knowing.

That you like the uncertainty.

“You’re weird,” he says finally.

“You’re weirder.”

“I’m really not.”

“You are, though.” You turn your head to look at him, still sprawled against the couch. “You’re the one sitting there refusing to confirm or deny whether you’ve been touching your sleeping best friend. That’s pretty weird.”

“You asked me to not tell you.”

“I know I did. Doesn’t make it less weird.” You’re grinning now, clearly enjoying his discomfort. “But at least it’s consensual.”

“You can’t just add ‘consensual’ in front of something and make it sound less weird.”

“Consensual murder.”

“That’s just assisted suicide.”

“Consensual robbery.”

“That’s called a gift.”

“Consensual assault.”

“That’s BDSM.”

“Okay, but consensual cannibalism,” you say.

“That’s just Hannibal.”

“Consensual haunting.”

“That’s called being a roommate.”

You snort-laugh into your japchae, and Yoongi realizes this could go on forever.

You have this thing where you latch onto a bit and won’t let go until you’ve exhausted every possible variation.

It’s annoying.

He’s used to it.

You finish your japchae first, always eating faster than him, and lean back with a satisfied sigh. "God, that place never misses."

"Mmm."

"You're so talkative tonight."

"I'm eating."

"You're always eating when I'm trying to have a conversation."

"Then stop trying to have conversations during meals."

You throw a balled-up napkin at his head. He doesn't flinch, just catches it one-handed and tosses it onto the coffee table with the empty containers.

"I'm gonna shower," you announce, already standing and stretching in that full-body way that makes your shirt ride up. "You got a clean towel?"

"Closet."

"Thanks, bestie." You ruffle his hair as you pass, and he swats at your hand halfheartedly.

The bathroom door clicks shut, and a moment later he hears the water start. The pipes in this building are shit, so it takes a full minute for the temperature to regulate, and he knows from experience you'll stand there cursing at the cold spray until it finally warms up.

He cleans up the takeout containers, tosses them in the trash, and settles back on the couch with his phone. There's a mobile game he's been stuck on for three days now—some stupid puzzle thing that should be easy but isn't—and he's determined to beat this level before he goes to bed.

Determined and increasingly frustrated as he fails for the seventh time in a row.

"Fucking—" He restarts, trying a different strategy. Gets further this time, almost to the end, and then—

Dead again.

"Bullshit."

He tries again.

And again.

And again, until his neck starts cramping from hunching over his phone and his eyes are starting to burn from staring at the screen.

The shower shuts off. You'll be out in a minute, probably already raiding his dresser for something to sleep in like you always do. Probably already making yourself at home in his bed because you never sleep on the couch if you can help it.

He shifts positions, trying to ease the crick in his neck. Doesn't help. The couch is comfortable for sitting but shit for extended gaming sessions, and he's been at this for almost forty minutes now.

Another attempt. Another failure. Another string of curses muttered under his breath.

The bathroom door opens, releasing a cloud of steam and the scent of his body wash. Because of course you use his stuff. Have your own entire collection of toiletries in his bathroom like you live here.

"Still on your phone?" you call out, padding past him toward the bedroom.

"Mmm."

"Riveting conversation, Yoongi. Really feeling the friendship tonight."

"I'm busy."

"Busy losing at Candy Crush?"

"It's not Candy Crush, and I'm not losing." He is absolutely losing. "Go to sleep."

"So romantic,” is your reply, but you're already in the bedroom, and he hears the familiar sounds of you settling in—the rustle of covers, the creak of his shitty mattress, the soft thump of your phone being tossed somewhere on the nightstand.

He makes three more attempts at the level. Fails all three times. His neck is now actively painful, a sharp twinge every time he tilts his head wrong.

This is stupid.

The level is stupid, the couch is stupid, his neck is stupid.

He’s stupid.

He gives up, locks his phone, and stands with a grunt that makes him feel older than he is. Stretches, rolls his shoulders, and heads toward the bedroom because fuck it—he's sleeping in his own bed tonight and you can deal with sharing like you always do.

The room is dark, but the faint glow coming from the blinds manages to illuminate the room ever so slightly. Enough to not trip over stuff.

His eyes flicker to you—already under the covers on the far side, or what passes for the far side in a mattress this narrow—curled up facing away from the door.

Asleep already, probably. You crash hard and fast when you're tired, dead to the world within minutes.

Yoongi closes the door quietly and navigates around the bed, careful not to jostle the mattress. His side is against the wall, which means he has to do this awkward crawl-shuffle thing to get into position without kicking you.

He manages it, barely, sliding under the covers and settling on his side with his back pressed against the wall. Pulls out his phone again because he's not actually tired yet, just uncomfortable, and maybe some YouTube videos will help him zone out enough to sleep.

You shift in your sleep, unconscious adjustment, and your ass presses back against his hip.

Yoongi sighs and shifts away, closer to the wall.

You always take up too much space, always end up sprawled across more than your share of mattress.

It's fine. Normal.

He's used to it.

He scrolls through his recommendations, looking for something mindless and long enough to put him to sleep. Commentary videos are good for that. Or those deep-dive documentaries about obscure topics.

Your ass presses harder against him, and he holds the covers up, about to kick you—gently, just enough to make you shift away—when his eyes drift down.

And his phone drops directly onto his face.

"Fuck—"

He catches it before it can clatter to the floor, but the damage is done. His nose throbs where the corner caught it, and his brain is too busy short-circuiting to care about the pain.

Because what the fuck.

What the fuck.

You're wearing a red thong.

Just that. Nothing else. Just a tiny scrap of red lace that barely qualifies as underwear, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

When did you—how did you—

You were wearing shorts earlier. He's sure you were wearing shorts. Saw them when you walked past him to the bathroom. Saw them when you kicked off your shoes at the door.

So when the hell did you change into this?

Or did you have it on under the shorts the whole time?

His brain stutters trying to process the logistics. Trying to figure out when this happened, why this happened, what the fuck you're thinking sleeping in his bed wearing basically nothing.

This is—this is insane. This is you being insane.

You don't just show up at your friend's apartment and sleep in their bed wearing lingerie. That's not normal friend behavior. That's not even weird friend behavior. That's something else entirely.

But you're still asleep. Still breathing deep and even, completely unaware that he's having a full mental breakdown two inches away from your half-naked ass.

Your very nice half-naked ass, by the way, which is still pressed against his hip and now he can't not notice it because of course he can't, because he's a guy and you're right there wearing that and what the hell is he supposed to do with this information?

He should wake you up. Should tell you to put on actual clothes like a reasonable person. Should demand an explanation for why you thought this was appropriate sleepwear for a platonic friendship.

But he doesn't.

Because you look comfortable. Because waking you up would mean having a conversation about this, and he has no idea what he'd even say. Because maybe you just sleep like this normally and he's the one making it weird by noticing.

Except he is noticing. Can't not notice now that he's seen it.

The red lace sits high on your hips, the thin straps disappearing between your ass cheeks in a way that's genuinely obscene. The fabric—what little there is of it—clings to you like it was painted on, and he can see everything. The curve where your ass meets your thighs. The spine dipping into your lower back. The way your skin looks soft and warm in the dim light.

His phone is still hovering above his face, video recommendations forgotten, because his entire brain has been hijacked by the realization that his best friend is sleeping in his bed wearing fuck-me lingerie and he has no idea what to do about it.

This is fine. This is totally fine. You're just sleeping. People sleep in underwear all the time. The fact that your underwear looks like it was designed to give someone a heart attack doesn't mean anything.

Doesn't mean you're trying to tell him something.

Doesn't mean you wore it on purpose.

Doesn't mean you're testing him, seeing if he'll do what you asked him to do weeks ago.

Right?

...Right?

Your ass presses harder against him as you shift in your sleep, and Yoongi closes his eyes and prays for strength.

Or a lobotomy.

Whichever comes first.

And then, like the absolute fucking loser he is, Yoongi reaches down and slowly pulls the covers back.

Just to see. Just to confirm what he already knows—that you’re really wearing that, that this is really happening, that he’s not hallucinating from sleep deprivation and sexual frustration.

But no. There you are. Red thong. Bare skin. The curve of your ass illuminated by streetlight like some kind of fucked-up Caravaggio painting.

You seem to sense his mental struggle, because then you’re flipping onto your back, hair spread over his pillow and hand tucked back below it.

His hand moves without permission, trailing down your stomach. Slow. Careful. Fingers trembling as they brush over warm skin, feeling the way your breath moves beneath his palm.

Then he stops.

His hand shakes. Actually shakes, hovering just above the waistband of that criminal piece of fabric.

He pulls back, presses his forehead into his hands, and has what can only be described as a mini mental breakdown.

Because what the fuck is he doing?

What kind of person sees their sleeping friend in lingerie and immediately thinks about touching her?

What kind of sick fuck must he be for this to be his automatic response instead of, like, concern or confusion or literally anything else?

But you said you didn’t want him to feel pressured.

Said you didn’t want to push this onto him, like it was your fantasy he was doing you a favor by indulging.

And that’s so fucking funny it makes something twist in his chest.

Because at some point—he doesn’t know when, can’t pinpoint the exact moment—this stopped being just your kink and became his too.

This isn’t him doing you a favor anymore. This is him wanting it. Craving it. Thinking about it during every quiet moment until it’s carved a groove into his brain he can’t escape.

When did that happen? When did he become the kind of person who gets hard thinking about his sleeping best friend? Who jerks off to the memory of her unconscious sounds? Who plans out what he’ll do next time like he’s composing fucking music?

Maybe he’s always been like this.

Maybe this was always inside him, waiting for permission to crawl out.

He sighs, long and heavy, and glances to the side.

At you.

At the red thong.

At the way it clings to your hips like a fucking invitation.

Bites his lip hard enough to sting.

Okay. Okay. He’s doing this.

He moves slowly, carefully repositioning himself to kneel between your thighs. You don’t stir, don’t even shift, just keep breathing deep and even like you’re miles away from consciousness.

His hands settle on your hips, thumbs brushing the elastic of the thong, and he hooks his fingers under the fabric. Doesn’t remove it—just moves it to the side, revealing—

His forehead drops to the mattress.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You’re glistening. Actually glistening, wet and swollen and so fucking perfect it makes his cock throb painfully in his boxers.

Why does this make him so hard? Why does seeing you like this—vulnerable, unconscious, aroused without knowing it—turn him into something desperate and feral?

He lifts his head, staring at your cunt like it holds the answers to questions he’s too afraid to ask.

Will you wake up if he tastes you? He’s been curious. Hasn’t tried this yet. Has thought about it approximately seven thousand times but hasn’t had the balls to actually do it.

Until now.

He leans forward, breath ghosting over slick skin, and you make this tiny sound in your sleep. Not quite a moan, not quite a sigh. Just this soft exhale that goes straight to his dick.

One taste. Just one, to see if you’ll react.

He flattens his tongue and licks up through your folds, slow and broad, tasting salt and musk and skin.

Your thighs twitch. Just slightly. But you don't wake.

His hands are shaking. Actually trembling against your skin as he holds you open, tongue working in light-handed strokes that make his jaw ache from the restraint.

Because he can't just devour you the way every instinct is screaming at him to do. Can't suck hard or lick fast the way he wants to. You'd wake up. You'd feel it. And then this ends and he has to explain why he's between your legs with his face buried in your cunt.

So he keeps it soft. Keeps it gentle. Tongue barely there, just enough pressure to taste you, to feel the way your body responds even when your mind can't.

And you taste like—like you. Like skin and salt and arousal, sharp and musky and distinctly human.

It’s good.

It makes him feel sick.

Makes him feel guilty and wrong and like he should stop, should pull away, should go sleep on the fucking couch and pretend this never happened.

But he doesn't stop.

His tongue circles your clit—barely, ghost of pressure—and your hips shift forward infinitesimally. Chasing it. Wanting more even unconscious.

He pulls back, breath coming hard, and stares at what he's doing.

At your pussy spread open under his hands, glistening with his saliva and your arousal.

At the red thong pushed to the side, still clinging to your hip.

What the fuck is he doing?

His cock throbs, answering for him. Hard and leaking and so desperate it's making him stupid. Making him think things he shouldn't think. Like how easy it would be to just—

No.

No.

That's too far. That crosses a line even his fucked-up brain knows shouldn't be crossed.

Except you asked him to touch you however he wanted, right? Said you trusted him. Said he could do whatever he wanted. Said you didn't want to know what he did, which means—technically—this would be okay. This would be within the boundaries you set.

His hand moves to his boxers, palming himself through the fabric.

He's so hard it's painful, has been hard since he saw that fucking thong, and the thought of actually—of really—

He leans forward again, tongue dipping inside you this time. Just the tip. Just enough to feel you clench around the intrusion, to taste the slick heat of you from the source.

You make a sound. Soft and breathy and caught in your throat.

Still asleep. Still trusting.

Still his to touch.

The thought makes him pull back again, forehead pressed against your inner thigh as he tries to breathe.

Tries to think.

Tries to talk himself out of what he's about to do.

Because this isn't just eating you out anymore. This is him genuinely considering—planning—to fuck you while you sleep. To take what you offered and use it in the most literal way possible.

And that feels different. Heavier. More real than jerking off while you're unconscious or using your mouth when you don't know it's happening.

This is penetration. This is him inside you. This is—

His cock twitches and he groans against your skin, quiet and desperate.

Fuck it.

He's doing this. He's actually doing this.

Because at some point between the first time he touched you and now, this stopped being your fantasy and became his. Stopped being something he was considering and became something he needs.

He sits back on his heels, hands still shaking as he shoves his boxers down. His cock springs free, hard and flushed and leaking, and for a moment he just stares at it like it belongs to someone else.

Then the condom problem hits him like cold water.

Fuck.

If he uses one, there's a wrapper. Evidence. You'll see it in the trash or on the nightstand and you'll know. You'll know he fucked you in your sleep and the whole point is that you're not supposed to know.

But if he doesn't use one—if he just takes you raw—

That feels worse somehow. More violating. More wrong. Like he's stealing something you didn't explicitly offer.

You said he could touch you, but does that include coming inside you? Does that include the intimacy of bare skin, of nothing between you?

His brain spirals, panic rising in his chest.

But there are condoms in the drawer. He always has condoms in the drawer, left over from relationships that ended years ago but never thrown out because what if he needs them?

Like now. Right fucking now.

He reaches over carefully, slowly, trying not to jostle the mattress. Opens the drawer with fingers that won't stop trembling. Finds the box, half-empty, foil packets catching what little light filters through his curtains.

Takes one out. Stares at it.

He can hide the wrapper. Has gotten good at hiding evidence. Has been cleaning up after himself for weeks now, erasing traces of what he does to you while you sleep. One more piece of trash won't make a difference.

And wearing a condom is the right thing to do. The responsible thing. The thing that makes this slightly less fucked up than it already is.

He tears the packet open with his teeth, and it’s so fucking loud in the quietness of his room his heart slams against his ribs for a second.

But you don't stir. Don't even shift. Just keep sleeping while he rolls latex down his length with shaking hands.

The condom is tight. Too tight. He hasn't worn one in months, maybe longer, and it feels wrong. A barrier between him and what he wants.

But it's necessary. Required. Because he's already crossing enough lines tonight without adding that to the list.

He positions himself between your thighs again, one hand braced beside your hip, the other guiding his cock to your entrance. The head presses against slick heat and he has to stop, has to breathe, has to fight the urge to just slam forward and take.

Can't do that. Can't be rough. No waking up.

So he pushes in slowly. Agonizingly slowly. Just the tip, feeling the way your body resists and yields at the same time. Feeling the way you're wet but still tight, still gripping him like you don't want to let go.

Your face scrunches slightly. Not quite discomfort, not quite pleasure. Just awareness filtering through sleep.

He freezes, cock barely inside you, and waits.

Your breathing evens out again. Your face relaxes.

He pushes deeper. Inch by careful inch, watching your face the entire time for signs you're waking. For signs he needs to stop, pull out, abort this entire fucked-up mission.

But you stay under. Stay soft and pliant and trusting beneath him while he slowly—so fucking slowly—fills you up.

When he's fully seated, buried to the hilt inside your sleeping body, he has to stop again. Has to look up at the ceiling and count to ten and just breathe because holy fuck.

Holy fuck.

You feel—you feel incredible. Hot and tight and wet, clenching around him in unconscious pulses that make his vision blur. The condom dulls the sensation but not enough, not nearly enough to make this bearable.

He's inside you. Actually inside you. Doing what you asked him to do weeks ago in his kitchen over coffee.

And you have no idea.

Won't ever know unless he tells you, which he won't, which means this moment—this exact feeling of being buried inside your sleeping body—is his alone to keep.

His secret.

His sin.

He starts moving. Barely. Just the shallowest thrusts, slowest thrusts of his life, pulling back an inch before pushing forward again, rhythm so careful it's basically torture.

Every instinct screams at him to take. To grip your hips and fuck you properly, to hear the slap of skin and feel you clench around him hard enough to hurt.

But he can't. Can't risk waking you. Can't shatter this moment by being careless.

So he keeps it soft as moonlight over the sea. Rolling his hips in tiny movements that make his thighs shake from the effort of holding back.

You make a sound. Small. Breathy. Not quite a moan but close enough to make his cock twitch inside you.

Your face stays peaceful. Relaxed. Completely unaware that your best friend is buried inside you, using your sleeping body exactly the way you asked him to.

And it feels—god, it feels so good it's making his chest tight. Making his breath come short and ragged. Making his eyes burn with something that's not quite tears but close enough to scare him.

Because this isn't just physical. Isn't just getting off.

This is you.

You trusting him, you soft and pliant beneath him, you making those unconscious sounds that shoot straight to his core.

This is everything he's wanted and everything he shouldn't have.

His hips rock forward again. Shallow. Light. Your walls flutter around him and he has to bite his lip to keep from groaning out loud.

And before he can even stop his stupid fucking self—

"I love you," he whispers into the air, absurd. So quiet it's barely sound. Just breath and confession and the truth he's never been able to say while you're awake. "Fuck—I love you—"

The words feel torn from somewhere deep inside him. Raw. Painful. Like admitting them makes them real in a way they weren't before.

And you don't hear. Won't ever hear.

Because you're asleep and he's a coward who can only say it like this—while he's inside you, using you, taking what he wants while you're unconscious.

Can’t say it when you’re awake, apparently.

Hasn’t been able to for over a decade.

His rhythm falters. Hips stuttering as his orgasm builds fast and brutal, coiling tight in his gut.

He tries to hold back. Tries to make this last. But the combination of how you feel around him and the confession still hanging in the air and the sheer fucked-up intimacy of this moment—

He comes with a strangled sound caught in his throat. Buries himself as deep as the careful angle allows and pulses inside you, filling the condom with hot spurts that don’t manage to drown down the tide of emotions pulling at his ribs.

For a few seconds, he's frozen. Can't move. Can't breathe. Can't process what just happened.

Then it hits him. All of it. The weight of what he's done crashing down like a building collapse.

He pulls out carefully, trembling so hard he can barely manage it. Sits back on his heels and just—stares. At you still sleeping peacefully. At the condom on his cock, latex and cum.

At the evidence of what he's become.

"Fuck," he mouths. No sound. Just the shape of the word, painful and mute.

The biggest sigh of his life leaves his chest. Long and shuddering and empty.

Then panic sets in.

He strips off the condom with shaking hands, ties it off, and looks around frantically for somewhere to put it.

Can't use the bedroom trash—too obvious. Can't leave it on the nightstand. Can't—

Bathroom. He'll flush it. That's what people do, right?

Even though you're not supposed to, even though it's bad for plumbing, it's better than you finding it.

He slides off the bed, careful not to jostle the mattress. Adjusts your thong back into place with trembling fingers, covering the evidence. Pulls your shirt down where it rode up. Makes sure you look exactly like you did before.

Grabs the foil wrapper from the nightstand.

Creeps to the bathroom like a fucking criminal. Closes the door so slowly the hinges don't make a sound. Turns on the water to mask any noise.

Flushes the condom. Watches it disappear. Tears the wrapper into tiny pieces and flushes those too, one handful at a time, paranoid about leaving any trace.

Washes his hands. Once. Twice. Three times, scrubbing like he can clean off the guilt.

Stares at himself in the mirror. At the man looking back with swollen lips and sex-mussed hair and eyes that look haunted.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

No answer. Just his reflection, damning and silent.

He goes back to the bedroom. Slides into bed as carefully as he left it. Settles on his side against the wall, as far from you as the narrow mattress allows.

You're still asleep. Still peaceful. Still completely unaware that anything happened.

And he—

He can't sleep.

Lies there staring at the ceiling, at the wall, at the back of your head. Replaying every moment. Every sound you made. Every careful thrust. Every whispered confession.

«I love you.»

He said it.

Actually said it out loud, even if you didn't hear.

Even if it doesn't count.

But it felt real. Felt true. Felt like the most honest thing he's ever said, buried inside you while you slept.

And that's the worst part. Not the sex. Not the violation of boundaries that technically aren't boundaries because you asked for this.

The worst part is that he meant it.

©️ kikiskook aka @jungkoode 2025.

do not translate. do not repost.

TL: @billy-jeans23 @hoelychildofgod @kam9404 @myantcha @yoongiiuu93 @gojomyoneandonly @tsibba01 @jazzluvrr @questioninglifeismypurpose @withmuchluv-tannie @lepples2015 @madiilolz @rntcdsc @dwahaaus @billy-jeans23 @kittycat1dsn @amarawayne @radicaltrashwrites @redcherrytea @dprlive230 @hanniescherries @mar-lo-pap @queenbloody @littlestarstinyseven @yunamay1248 @supernoonanyc @ddaengielle @xmarrx @stydixmxrtinski @shadowyjellyfishfest @ilikekpop-c @xxunholyqueenxx @yuyu0y11 @inconsistentpieceofmess @yourlittleslutcums @sadbitchenergy @vespersbells @naesarang07 @iam-wh0 @arrctica @eclipsedfairy @starsyoongi @victorialoce @icantsleephomesick @jjklvrapobangpo7 @jazzluvrr @svnk1ssd @tremblementdesfleurs @teasykes

[kikiskook]

@meigalaxy @viahjgd @mindurbuzznezz @occeanawave @mellyyyyyyx @ot7girl4l @mintyunho @lilbny-blog @yoongiminnie444 @mapleleafsamurai @itssluthourhere @03galaxywriter03 @inconsistentpieceofmess @joonie1213 @dropdeadbec @fancypeacepersona @pinklasagna04 @thelilbutifulthings

[kikiskook]

MOON DREAMS

04. 상현 | SANGHYEON (waxing gibbous)

Red lace. That's what you're wearing under his sheets when he climbs into bed. Just a thong. Nothing else. He sees it when you shift in your sleep, sees the way it sits on your hips like an invitation he didn't ask for but can't ignore. His hands shake. His brain screams at him to stop, to leave, to sleep on the fucking couch. He doesn't listen. He never listens anymore.

☾ masterlist | moon dreams masterpost

rating ; 18+ | explicit

genre ; bsf to lovers, somnophilia kink, smut, angst, porn with plot

word count ; 5,7k

warnings ; explicit sexual content, consensual somnophilia, protected sex, condom use, penetrative sex while unconscious, condom use, female oral sex (giving), (cunnilingus), severe guilt spiral, obsessive internal monologue, emotional breakdown, evidence cleanup/paranoia

☁️ rundown ; You've always shared everything with your best friend—beds, clothes, sleep, silence. But one day, you offer him something else: yourself. Unconscious. "Do whatever you want," you say. "Just don't tell me." At first, he's stunned. He's not like that. Not a pervert. Not a creep. But when you fall asleep on his couch in nothing but his shirt, thighs bare, lips parted—he starts thinking. What if you meant it? What if he tried… just once?

a/n ; So. We're here. Chapter 4. The waxing gibbous. Almost full. Almost complete. Almost at the breaking point. This is THE chapter. The one where Yoongi stops pretending this is about curiosity or experimentation or doing a favor. This is where he admits—to himself, if not to Y/N—that he wants this. That it's become his fantasy. That he's completely, irrevocably fucked. Let's talk about the red thong. Because YES, it's a thing. Y/N knows exactly what she's doing. She's not innocently sleeping in lingerie by accident—she's testing him. Seeing if he'll take what she offered. Seeing how far he'll go. She can't ask directly (those are the rules), but she can provide... let's call them opportunities. And Yoongi? He walks right into it. Because he’s a man and men are simple creatures. Because of course he does. He's been spiraling for weeks, thinking about this constantly, and now she's literally presenting herself in the most obvious way possible. And OH MY GODDDD that moment. When you read you’ll know. But THAT is the moment this stops being just a kink fic and becomes something else entirely. Because it’s when she can't hear him. When it doesn't count. When it's safe. Except it does count. It counts to him. And that breaks him. The fact that he's doing this to her and he can't stop and he doesn't even want to stop anymore. Also—because I know someone will ask—yes, he used a condom. Yes, that was intentional. Yoongi still has some moral boundaries left, even if they're Swiss cheese at this point. The condom represents the last vestige of his attempt to do this ‘responsibly’ (as if there's a responsible way to fuck your unconscious best friend, but you know what I mean). It's also practical—no pregnancy scares in this story, we have enough emotional devastation to deal with.

One more chapter. One more moon phase. And then everything falls apart.

Or does it?

Hehehehe. ♡

You show up at his apartment on a Wednesday with takeout and that look on your face.

The one that means you’re planning something.

“I brought japchae,” you announce, kicking off your shoes and heading straight for his couch like it’s your birth right. “The good kind. From that place near your studio.”

Yoongi eyes you suspiciously. “What do you want?”

“Why do I have to want something? Maybe I’m just being nice.”

“You’re never just nice.”

“Rude.” But you’re grinning as you say it, already unpacking containers onto his coffee table. “Can’t I just want to have dinner with my best friend?”

“You could. But you don’t.” He settles onto the couch beside you, accepting the chopsticks you hand him. “So what is it?”

You’re quiet for a moment, focused on your food in a way that’s too measured to be genuine.

Then: “Have you thought about it?”

“Thought about what?”

“You know what.”

He does know.

Has thought about almost nothing else for weeks now.

But he’s not about to admit that.

“You said you didn’t want to know," he sighs.

“I said I didn’t want to know if you did anything.” You look at him sideways, expression unreadable. “Doesn’t mean I can’t be curious about whether you’ve thought about it.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It’s really not.”

Yoongi takes a bite of japchae and doesn’t answer.

Because this is dangerous territory and you’re fishing, testing boundaries he’s not sure exist anymore.

Trying to figure out if he’s taken what you offered without actually asking him to break the rule you set.

It’s so quintessentially you he almost groans.

“So?” you prompt. “Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Thought about it. Imagined it.” You set down your chopsticks, turning to face him fully. “Come on, Yoongi. It’s been weeks. You can’t tell me you haven’t at least considered it.”

“You said you didn’t want to know.”

“And you’re not telling me anything.” You lean closer, eyes bright. “I’m asking if you’ve thought about touching me while I sleep. That’s it. Just a hypothetical question.”

“There’s nothing hypothetical about it.”

“So you have thought about it.”

He wants to throw the japchae at you.

Wants to tell you to stop playing games, stop testing him, stop making this harder than it already is.

But instead he just looks at you, taking in the way you’re watching him with that small smile, like you already know the answer.

Like you’ve always known.

“I’m not having this conversation,” he says finally.

“Why not?”

“Because you set the rules. And the rules say we don’t talk about it.”

“I never said we couldn’t talk about thinking about it.” You groan. “I just said I didn’t want to know what you actually did. Big difference.”

“Not that big.”

“Huge difference. Massive.” You pick up your chopsticks again, twirling noodles like this is just casual dinner conversation. “Like, for example, I could tell you I’ve been thinking about it too. Wondering if you’ve touched me. Wondering how you touched me, if you did. Where. For how long.”

Yoongi nearly chokes on his food.

“What?”

“See? That’s me thinking about it. Not me asking if you actually did anything.” You take a bite, completely unbothered. “Those are different things.”

“They’re really not.”

“They really are.” You’re watching him again, studying his face like you’re trying to read his mind. “You look stressed. Are you stressed?”

“I’m not stressed.”

“You’re definitely stressed.”

“I’m eating japchae.”

“You’re stress-eating japchae. Not the same.” You set down your food again, shifting closer. “Yoongi. Real talk for a second. Are you okay?”

The question catches him off guard.

Because you sound genuinely concerned now, the teasing edge gone from your voice. Like you’re actually worried about him instead of just trying to get information.

“I’m fine,” he says.

“You sure? Because I know I kind of… dropped a lot on you. With the whole somnophilia thing.” You’re fidgeting now, picking at the hem of your shirt. “And I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything. Or like I’m expecting anything. I just… wanted to put it out there. As an option.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” You look at him properly now, and there’s something doubtful in your expression that makes his chest tight. “Because I’ve been thinking—maybe I shouldn’t have asked. Maybe it was too weird. Too much. Too—”

“It wasn’t too much.”

“But you haven’t—” You stop yourself, biting your lip. “Sorry. I’m not supposed to ask that.”

“Then don’t.”

“I’m just curious.”

“You’re always curious.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“It’s a thing,” Yoongi says, which is not an answer but also completely accurate. “It’s just… you, I guess. You’re always pushing, trying to figure out what people are thinking.”

You’re quiet for a moment, considering.

Then you speak again. “You’re impossible to read, you know? You could be thinking literally anything and I’d have no idea.”

“That’s the point.”

“It’s frustrating.”

“Good.”

You laugh at that, real and genuine, and some of the tension breaks. “You’re an asshole.”

“Didn’t stop you from befriending me.”

“You’re right it didn’t.” You smile as you say it, reaching for your food again. “Okay, fine. I’ll stop fishing. But for the record—I wasn’t lying when I said I think about it too.”

“About what?”

“About whether you’ve touched me.” You say it casually, like it’s not big deal when it is. “I try to notice things when I wake up. Like if my clothes are different, or if I’m positioned weird, or if there’s any… evidence.”

“Evidence.”

“You know what I mean.”

He does know.

Knows exactly what you mean. Knows you’ve been trying to piece together whether he’s taken what you offered. Trying to figure out if he’s the kind of person who would.

The kind of person he is.

“And?” he asks, because apparently he’s a masochist.

“And nothing. I can never tell.” You sound almost disappointed. “Either you’re really good at covering your tracks, or you haven’t done anything. And I set the rules myself. I can’t ask which one it is.”

“No, you can’t.”

“But I want to.”

“I know you do.”

“But I won’t.” You look at him again, and the skin around your eyes crinkles the way it does when you genuinely smile. “Because the not knowing is kind of… nice. In a weird way. Like Schrödinger’s cat.”

Yoongi nearly drops his chopsticks.

“What?”

“Schrödinger’s cat. You know, the thought experiment.” You pick at your food, absentminded. “Like, maybe you’ve touched me, maybe you haven’t. Both possibilities exist at the same time until I observe it. Until I know for sure. And as long as I don’t know, both versions are real.”

He stares at you.

Because of course.

Of course you’d reference the exact same thought experiment he used to justify this to himself. Of course you’d understand the quantum mechanics of moral ambiguity.

Of course you’d get it.

“You’ve been thinking about this a lot,” he says.

“I told you I have.” You shrug, glancing at your noodles. “It’s interesting. The whole concept. Like, I gave you permission to touch me however you want while I sleep. But I also said I don’t want to know if you do. So in my head, there’s this constant possibility that you’re doing it. That you’ve done it. That you’re thinking about doing it. And all those possibilities exist at the same time.”

“That’s not how quantum mechanics works.”

“It’s exactly how quantum mechanics works. Don’t mansplain physics to me.”

“I’m not mansplaining—”

“You literally are.” But you’re laughing as you say it. “The point is, I like the uncertainty. The not knowing. It’s… exciting.”

“Exciting.”

“Yeah. Like, every time I wake up in your bed, there’s this moment where I wonder if you touched me.” You lean back against the couch, eyes on the ceiling. “And I’ll never know for sure. That’s the best part.”

Yoongi doesn’t know what to say to that.

Doesn’t know how to process that you’ve been thinking about this the same way he has.

That you’ve been wondering and trying to piece together the truth while simultaneously enjoying the mystery of not knowing.

That you like the uncertainty.

“You’re weird,” he says finally.

“You’re weirder.”

“I’m really not.”

“You are, though.” You turn your head to look at him, still sprawled against the couch. “You’re the one sitting there refusing to confirm or deny whether you’ve been touching your sleeping best friend. That’s pretty weird.”

“You asked me to not tell you.”

“I know I did. Doesn’t make it less weird.” You’re grinning now, clearly enjoying his discomfort. “But at least it’s consensual.”

“You can’t just add ‘consensual’ in front of something and make it sound less weird.”

“Consensual murder.”

“That’s just assisted suicide.”

“Consensual robbery.”

“That’s called a gift.”

“Consensual assault.”

“That’s BDSM.”

“Okay, but consensual cannibalism,” you say.

“That’s just Hannibal.”

“Consensual haunting.”

“That’s called being a roommate.”

You snort-laugh into your japchae, and Yoongi realizes this could go on forever.

You have this thing where you latch onto a bit and won’t let go until you’ve exhausted every possible variation.

It’s annoying.

He’s used to it.

You finish your japchae first, always eating faster than him, and lean back with a satisfied sigh. "God, that place never misses."

"Mmm."

"You're so talkative tonight."

"I'm eating."

"You're always eating when I'm trying to have a conversation."

"Then stop trying to have conversations during meals."

You throw a balled-up napkin at his head. He doesn't flinch, just catches it one-handed and tosses it onto the coffee table with the empty containers.

"I'm gonna shower," you announce, already standing and stretching in that full-body way that makes your shirt ride up. "You got a clean towel?"

"Closet."

"Thanks, bestie." You ruffle his hair as you pass, and he swats at your hand halfheartedly.

The bathroom door clicks shut, and a moment later he hears the water start. The pipes in this building are shit, so it takes a full minute for the temperature to regulate, and he knows from experience you'll stand there cursing at the cold spray until it finally warms up.

He cleans up the takeout containers, tosses them in the trash, and settles back on the couch with his phone. There's a mobile game he's been stuck on for three days now—some stupid puzzle thing that should be easy but isn't—and he's determined to beat this level before he goes to bed.

Determined and increasingly frustrated as he fails for the seventh time in a row.

"Fucking—" He restarts, trying a different strategy. Gets further this time, almost to the end, and then—

Dead again.

"Bullshit."

He tries again.

And again.

And again, until his neck starts cramping from hunching over his phone and his eyes are starting to burn from staring at the screen.

The shower shuts off. You'll be out in a minute, probably already raiding his dresser for something to sleep in like you always do. Probably already making yourself at home in his bed because you never sleep on the couch if you can help it.

He shifts positions, trying to ease the crick in his neck. Doesn't help. The couch is comfortable for sitting but shit for extended gaming sessions, and he's been at this for almost forty minutes now.

Another attempt. Another failure. Another string of curses muttered under his breath.

The bathroom door opens, releasing a cloud of steam and the scent of his body wash. Because of course you use his stuff. Have your own entire collection of toiletries in his bathroom like you live here.

"Still on your phone?" you call out, padding past him toward the bedroom.

"Mmm."

"Riveting conversation, Yoongi. Really feeling the friendship tonight."

"I'm busy."

"Busy losing at Candy Crush?"

"It's not Candy Crush, and I'm not losing." He is absolutely losing. "Go to sleep."

"So romantic,” is your reply, but you're already in the bedroom, and he hears the familiar sounds of you settling in—the rustle of covers, the creak of his shitty mattress, the soft thump of your phone being tossed somewhere on the nightstand.

He makes three more attempts at the level. Fails all three times. His neck is now actively painful, a sharp twinge every time he tilts his head wrong.

This is stupid.

The level is stupid, the couch is stupid, his neck is stupid.

He’s stupid.

He gives up, locks his phone, and stands with a grunt that makes him feel older than he is. Stretches, rolls his shoulders, and heads toward the bedroom because fuck it—he's sleeping in his own bed tonight and you can deal with sharing like you always do.

The room is dark, but the faint glow coming from the blinds manages to illuminate the room ever so slightly. Enough to not trip over stuff.

His eyes flicker to you—already under the covers on the far side, or what passes for the far side in a mattress this narrow—curled up facing away from the door.

Asleep already, probably. You crash hard and fast when you're tired, dead to the world within minutes.

Yoongi closes the door quietly and navigates around the bed, careful not to jostle the mattress. His side is against the wall, which means he has to do this awkward crawl-shuffle thing to get into position without kicking you.

He manages it, barely, sliding under the covers and settling on his side with his back pressed against the wall. Pulls out his phone again because he's not actually tired yet, just uncomfortable, and maybe some YouTube videos will help him zone out enough to sleep.

You shift in your sleep, unconscious adjustment, and your ass presses back against his hip.

Yoongi sighs and shifts away, closer to the wall.

You always take up too much space, always end up sprawled across more than your share of mattress.

It's fine. Normal.

He's used to it.

He scrolls through his recommendations, looking for something mindless and long enough to put him to sleep. Commentary videos are good for that. Or those deep-dive documentaries about obscure topics.

Your ass presses harder against him, and he holds the covers up, about to kick you—gently, just enough to make you shift away—when his eyes drift down.

And his phone drops directly onto his face.

"Fuck—"

He catches it before it can clatter to the floor, but the damage is done. His nose throbs where the corner caught it, and his brain is too busy short-circuiting to care about the pain.

Because what the fuck.

What the fuck.

You're wearing a red thong.

Just that. Nothing else. Just a tiny scrap of red lace that barely qualifies as underwear, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

When did you—how did you—

You were wearing shorts earlier. He's sure you were wearing shorts. Saw them when you walked past him to the bathroom. Saw them when you kicked off your shoes at the door.

So when the hell did you change into this?

Or did you have it on under the shorts the whole time?

His brain stutters trying to process the logistics. Trying to figure out when this happened, why this happened, what the fuck you're thinking sleeping in his bed wearing basically nothing.

This is—this is insane. This is you being insane.

You don't just show up at your friend's apartment and sleep in their bed wearing lingerie. That's not normal friend behavior. That's not even weird friend behavior. That's something else entirely.

But you're still asleep. Still breathing deep and even, completely unaware that he's having a full mental breakdown two inches away from your half-naked ass.

Your very nice half-naked ass, by the way, which is still pressed against his hip and now he can't not notice it because of course he can't, because he's a guy and you're right there wearing that and what the hell is he supposed to do with this information?

He should wake you up. Should tell you to put on actual clothes like a reasonable person. Should demand an explanation for why you thought this was appropriate sleepwear for a platonic friendship.

But he doesn't.

Because you look comfortable. Because waking you up would mean having a conversation about this, and he has no idea what he'd even say. Because maybe you just sleep like this normally and he's the one making it weird by noticing.

Except he is noticing. Can't not notice now that he's seen it.

The red lace sits high on your hips, the thin straps disappearing between your ass cheeks in a way that's genuinely obscene. The fabric—what little there is of it—clings to you like it was painted on, and he can see everything. The curve where your ass meets your thighs. The spine dipping into your lower back. The way your skin looks soft and warm in the dim light.

His phone is still hovering above his face, video recommendations forgotten, because his entire brain has been hijacked by the realization that his best friend is sleeping in his bed wearing fuck-me lingerie and he has no idea what to do about it.

This is fine. This is totally fine. You're just sleeping. People sleep in underwear all the time. The fact that your underwear looks like it was designed to give someone a heart attack doesn't mean anything.

Doesn't mean you're trying to tell him something.

Doesn't mean you wore it on purpose.

Doesn't mean you're testing him, seeing if he'll do what you asked him to do weeks ago.

Right?

...Right?

Your ass presses harder against him as you shift in your sleep, and Yoongi closes his eyes and prays for strength.

Or a lobotomy.

Whichever comes first.

And then, like the absolute fucking loser he is, Yoongi reaches down and slowly pulls the covers back.

Just to see. Just to confirm what he already knows—that you’re really wearing that, that this is really happening, that he’s not hallucinating from sleep deprivation and sexual frustration.

But no. There you are. Red thong. Bare skin. The curve of your ass illuminated by streetlight like some kind of fucked-up Caravaggio painting.

You seem to sense his mental struggle, because then you’re flipping onto your back, hair spread over his pillow and hand tucked back below it.

His hand moves without permission, trailing down your stomach. Slow. Careful. Fingers trembling as they brush over warm skin, feeling the way your breath moves beneath his palm.

Then he stops.

His hand shakes. Actually shakes, hovering just above the waistband of that criminal piece of fabric.

He pulls back, presses his forehead into his hands, and has what can only be described as a mini mental breakdown.

Because what the fuck is he doing?

What kind of person sees their sleeping friend in lingerie and immediately thinks about touching her?

What kind of sick fuck must he be for this to be his automatic response instead of, like, concern or confusion or literally anything else?

But you said you didn’t want him to feel pressured.

Said you didn’t want to push this onto him, like it was your fantasy he was doing you a favor by indulging.

And that’s so fucking funny it makes something twist in his chest.

Because at some point—he doesn’t know when, can’t pinpoint the exact moment—this stopped being just your kink and became his too.

This isn’t him doing you a favor anymore. This is him wanting it. Craving it. Thinking about it during every quiet moment until it’s carved a groove into his brain he can’t escape.

When did that happen? When did he become the kind of person who gets hard thinking about his sleeping best friend? Who jerks off to the memory of her unconscious sounds? Who plans out what he’ll do next time like he’s composing fucking music?

Maybe he’s always been like this.

Maybe this was always inside him, waiting for permission to crawl out.

He sighs, long and heavy, and glances to the side.

At you.

At the red thong.

At the way it clings to your hips like a fucking invitation.

Bites his lip hard enough to sting.

Okay. Okay. He’s doing this.

He moves slowly, carefully repositioning himself to kneel between your thighs. You don’t stir, don’t even shift, just keep breathing deep and even like you’re miles away from consciousness.

His hands settle on your hips, thumbs brushing the elastic of the thong, and he hooks his fingers under the fabric. Doesn’t remove it—just moves it to the side, revealing—

His forehead drops to the mattress.

Jesus fucking Christ.

You’re glistening. Actually glistening, wet and swollen and so fucking perfect it makes his cock throb painfully in his boxers.

Why does this make him so hard? Why does seeing you like this—vulnerable, unconscious, aroused without knowing it—turn him into something desperate and feral?

He lifts his head, staring at your cunt like it holds the answers to questions he’s too afraid to ask.

Will you wake up if he tastes you? He’s been curious. Hasn’t tried this yet. Has thought about it approximately seven thousand times but hasn’t had the balls to actually do it.

Until now.

He leans forward, breath ghosting over slick skin, and you make this tiny sound in your sleep. Not quite a moan, not quite a sigh. Just this soft exhale that goes straight to his dick.

One taste. Just one, to see if you’ll react.

He flattens his tongue and licks up through your folds, slow and broad, tasting salt and musk and skin.

Your thighs twitch. Just slightly. But you don't wake.

His hands are shaking. Actually trembling against your skin as he holds you open, tongue working in light-handed strokes that make his jaw ache from the restraint.

Because he can't just devour you the way every instinct is screaming at him to do. Can't suck hard or lick fast the way he wants to. You'd wake up. You'd feel it. And then this ends and he has to explain why he's between your legs with his face buried in your cunt.

So he keeps it soft. Keeps it gentle. Tongue barely there, just enough pressure to taste you, to feel the way your body responds even when your mind can't.

And you taste like—like you. Like skin and salt and arousal, sharp and musky and distinctly human.

It’s good.

It makes him feel sick.

Makes him feel guilty and wrong and like he should stop, should pull away, should go sleep on the fucking couch and pretend this never happened.

But he doesn't stop.

His tongue circles your clit—barely, ghost of pressure—and your hips shift forward infinitesimally. Chasing it. Wanting more even unconscious.

He pulls back, breath coming hard, and stares at what he's doing.

At your pussy spread open under his hands, glistening with his saliva and your arousal.

At the red thong pushed to the side, still clinging to your hip.

What the fuck is he doing?

His cock throbs, answering for him. Hard and leaking and so desperate it's making him stupid. Making him think things he shouldn't think. Like how easy it would be to just—

No.

No.

That's too far. That crosses a line even his fucked-up brain knows shouldn't be crossed.

Except you asked him to touch you however he wanted, right? Said you trusted him. Said he could do whatever he wanted. Said you didn't want to know what he did, which means—technically—this would be okay. This would be within the boundaries you set.

His hand moves to his boxers, palming himself through the fabric.

He's so hard it's painful, has been hard since he saw that fucking thong, and the thought of actually—of really—

He leans forward again, tongue dipping inside you this time. Just the tip. Just enough to feel you clench around the intrusion, to taste the slick heat of you from the source.

You make a sound. Soft and breathy and caught in your throat.

Still asleep. Still trusting.

Still his to touch.

The thought makes him pull back again, forehead pressed against your inner thigh as he tries to breathe.

Tries to think.

Tries to talk himself out of what he's about to do.

Because this isn't just eating you out anymore. This is him genuinely considering—planning—to fuck you while you sleep. To take what you offered and use it in the most literal way possible.

And that feels different. Heavier. More real than jerking off while you're unconscious or using your mouth when you don't know it's happening.

This is penetration. This is him inside you. This is—

His cock twitches and he groans against your skin, quiet and desperate.

Fuck it.

He's doing this. He's actually doing this.

Because at some point between the first time he touched you and now, this stopped being your fantasy and became his. Stopped being something he was considering and became something he needs.

He sits back on his heels, hands still shaking as he shoves his boxers down. His cock springs free, hard and flushed and leaking, and for a moment he just stares at it like it belongs to someone else.

Then the condom problem hits him like cold water.

Fuck.

If he uses one, there's a wrapper. Evidence. You'll see it in the trash or on the nightstand and you'll know. You'll know he fucked you in your sleep and the whole point is that you're not supposed to know.

But if he doesn't use one—if he just takes you raw—

That feels worse somehow. More violating. More wrong. Like he's stealing something you didn't explicitly offer.

You said he could touch you, but does that include coming inside you? Does that include the intimacy of bare skin, of nothing between you?

His brain spirals, panic rising in his chest.

But there are condoms in the drawer. He always has condoms in the drawer, left over from relationships that ended years ago but never thrown out because what if he needs them?

Like now. Right fucking now.

He reaches over carefully, slowly, trying not to jostle the mattress. Opens the drawer with fingers that won't stop trembling. Finds the box, half-empty, foil packets catching what little light filters through his curtains.

Takes one out. Stares at it.

He can hide the wrapper. Has gotten good at hiding evidence. Has been cleaning up after himself for weeks now, erasing traces of what he does to you while you sleep. One more piece of trash won't make a difference.

And wearing a condom is the right thing to do. The responsible thing. The thing that makes this slightly less fucked up than it already is.

He tears the packet open with his teeth, and it’s so fucking loud in the quietness of his room his heart slams against his ribs for a second.

But you don't stir. Don't even shift. Just keep sleeping while he rolls latex down his length with shaking hands.

The condom is tight. Too tight. He hasn't worn one in months, maybe longer, and it feels wrong. A barrier between him and what he wants.

But it's necessary. Required. Because he's already crossing enough lines tonight without adding that to the list.

He positions himself between your thighs again, one hand braced beside your hip, the other guiding his cock to your entrance. The head presses against slick heat and he has to stop, has to breathe, has to fight the urge to just slam forward and take.

Can't do that. Can't be rough. No waking up.

So he pushes in slowly. Agonizingly slowly. Just the tip, feeling the way your body resists and yields at the same time. Feeling the way you're wet but still tight, still gripping him like you don't want to let go.

Your face scrunches slightly. Not quite discomfort, not quite pleasure. Just awareness filtering through sleep.

He freezes, cock barely inside you, and waits.

Your breathing evens out again. Your face relaxes.

He pushes deeper. Inch by careful inch, watching your face the entire time for signs you're waking. For signs he needs to stop, pull out, abort this entire fucked-up mission.

But you stay under. Stay soft and pliant and trusting beneath him while he slowly—so fucking slowly—fills you up.

When he's fully seated, buried to the hilt inside your sleeping body, he has to stop again. Has to look up at the ceiling and count to ten and just breathe because holy fuck.

Holy fuck.

You feel—you feel incredible. Hot and tight and wet, clenching around him in unconscious pulses that make his vision blur. The condom dulls the sensation but not enough, not nearly enough to make this bearable.

He's inside you. Actually inside you. Doing what you asked him to do weeks ago in his kitchen over coffee.

And you have no idea.

Won't ever know unless he tells you, which he won't, which means this moment—this exact feeling of being buried inside your sleeping body—is his alone to keep.

His secret.

His sin.

He starts moving. Barely. Just the shallowest thrusts, slowest thrusts of his life, pulling back an inch before pushing forward again, rhythm so careful it's basically torture.

Every instinct screams at him to take. To grip your hips and fuck you properly, to hear the slap of skin and feel you clench around him hard enough to hurt.

But he can't. Can't risk waking you. Can't shatter this moment by being careless.

So he keeps it soft as moonlight over the sea. Rolling his hips in tiny movements that make his thighs shake from the effort of holding back.

You make a sound. Small. Breathy. Not quite a moan but close enough to make his cock twitch inside you.

Your face stays peaceful. Relaxed. Completely unaware that your best friend is buried inside you, using your sleeping body exactly the way you asked him to.

And it feels—god, it feels so good it's making his chest tight. Making his breath come short and ragged. Making his eyes burn with something that's not quite tears but close enough to scare him.

Because this isn't just physical. Isn't just getting off.

This is you.

You trusting him, you soft and pliant beneath him, you making those unconscious sounds that shoot straight to his core.

This is everything he's wanted and everything he shouldn't have.

His hips rock forward again. Shallow. Light. Your walls flutter around him and he has to bite his lip to keep from groaning out loud.

And before he can even stop his stupid fucking self—

"I love you," he whispers into the air, absurd. So quiet it's barely sound. Just breath and confession and the truth he's never been able to say while you're awake. "Fuck—I love you—"

The words feel torn from somewhere deep inside him. Raw. Painful. Like admitting them makes them real in a way they weren't before.

And you don't hear. Won't ever hear.

Because you're asleep and he's a coward who can only say it like this—while he's inside you, using you, taking what he wants while you're unconscious.

Can’t say it when you’re awake, apparently.

Hasn’t been able to for over a decade.

His rhythm falters. Hips stuttering as his orgasm builds fast and brutal, coiling tight in his gut.

He tries to hold back. Tries to make this last. But the combination of how you feel around him and the confession still hanging in the air and the sheer fucked-up intimacy of this moment—

He comes with a strangled sound caught in his throat. Buries himself as deep as the careful angle allows and pulses inside you, filling the condom with hot spurts that don’t manage to drown down the tide of emotions pulling at his ribs.

For a few seconds, he's frozen. Can't move. Can't breathe. Can't process what just happened.

Then it hits him. All of it. The weight of what he's done crashing down like a building collapse.

He pulls out carefully, trembling so hard he can barely manage it. Sits back on his heels and just—stares. At you still sleeping peacefully. At the condom on his cock, latex and cum.

At the evidence of what he's become.

"Fuck," he mouths. No sound. Just the shape of the word, painful and mute.

The biggest sigh of his life leaves his chest. Long and shuddering and empty.

Then panic sets in.

He strips off the condom with shaking hands, ties it off, and looks around frantically for somewhere to put it.

Can't use the bedroom trash—too obvious. Can't leave it on the nightstand. Can't—

Bathroom. He'll flush it. That's what people do, right?

Even though you're not supposed to, even though it's bad for plumbing, it's better than you finding it.

He slides off the bed, careful not to jostle the mattress. Adjusts your thong back into place with trembling fingers, covering the evidence. Pulls your shirt down where it rode up. Makes sure you look exactly like you did before.

Grabs the foil wrapper from the nightstand.

Creeps to the bathroom like a fucking criminal. Closes the door so slowly the hinges don't make a sound. Turns on the water to mask any noise.

Flushes the condom. Watches it disappear. Tears the wrapper into tiny pieces and flushes those too, one handful at a time, paranoid about leaving any trace.

Washes his hands. Once. Twice. Three times, scrubbing like he can clean off the guilt.

Stares at himself in the mirror. At the man looking back with swollen lips and sex-mussed hair and eyes that look haunted.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

No answer. Just his reflection, damning and silent.

He goes back to the bedroom. Slides into bed as carefully as he left it. Settles on his side against the wall, as far from you as the narrow mattress allows.

You're still asleep. Still peaceful. Still completely unaware that anything happened.

And he—

He can't sleep.

Lies there staring at the ceiling, at the wall, at the back of your head. Replaying every moment. Every sound you made. Every careful thrust. Every whispered confession.

«I love you.»

He said it.

Actually said it out loud, even if you didn't hear.

Even if it doesn't count.

But it felt real. Felt true. Felt like the most honest thing he's ever said, buried inside you while you slept.

And that's the worst part. Not the sex. Not the violation of boundaries that technically aren't boundaries because you asked for this.

The worst part is that he meant it.

©️ kikiskook aka @jungkoode 2025.

do not translate. do not repost.

TL: @billy-jeans23 @hoelychildofgod @kam9404 @myantcha @yoongiiuu93 @gojomyoneandonly @tsibba01 @jazzluvrr @questioninglifeismypurpose @withmuchluv-tannie @lepples2015 @madiilolz @rntcdsc @dwahaaus @billy-jeans23 @kittycat1dsn @amarawayne @radicaltrashwrites @redcherrytea @dprlive230 @hanniescherries @mar-lo-pap @queenbloody @littlestarstinyseven @yunamay1248 @supernoonanyc @ddaengielle @xmarrx @stydixmxrtinski @shadowyjellyfishfest @ilikekpop-c @xxunholyqueenxx @yuyu0y11 @inconsistentpieceofmess @yourlittleslutcums @sadbitchenergy @vespersbells @naesarang07 @iam-wh0 @arrctica @eclipsedfairy @starsyoongi @victorialoce @icantsleephomesick @jjklvrapobangpo7 @jazzluvrr @svnk1ssd @tremblementdesfleurs @teasykes

[kikiskook]

MOON DREAMS

03. 반달 | BANDAL (half moon)

You bring snacks and a popsicle. Cherry red one that stains your lips the color of something he shouldn't be thinking about. He watches you eat it, watches your tongue work, watches the way your mouth moves until he has to look away. Then you fall asleep in his lap, head heavy against his thigh, mouth still parted. The stick dangles from your lips. He should move it. Should wake you. Should do literally anything except what he's actually considering.

☾ masterlist | moon dreams masterpost

rating ; 18+ | explicit

genre ; bsf to lovers, somnophilia kink, smut, angst, porn with plot

word count ; 4,4k

warnings ; explicit sexual content, consensual somnophilia, male oral sex (giving), (= blowjob), cum on face, clean-up, internal guilt spiral, obsessive thoughts, oral fixation

☁️ rundown ; You've always shared everything with your best friend—beds, clothes, sleep, silence. But one day, you offer him something else: yourself. Unconscious. "Do whatever you want," you say. "Just don't tell me." At first, he's stunned. He's not like that. Not a pervert. Not a creep. But when you fall asleep on his couch in nothing but his shirt, thighs bare, lips parted—he starts thinking. What if you meant it? What if he tried… just once?

a/n ; Welcome to the halfway point. Chapter 3. The half moon. Which feels cosmically appropriate considering this is where we officially cross the threshold from ‘maybe this is still innocent’ to ‘yeah no, there's no going back from this.’ Soooo, the popsicle. HAHAHAHA. Yes, I know. I know. It's the most heavy-handed symbolism I've ever written and I'm not even sorry about it. (okay maybe a little sorry) (but also not really) The popsicle scene is deliberate—it's visual torture for Yoongi. It's watching her mouth work on something sweet and cold and red, watching the way her tongue moves, watching her be unconsciously sensual in a way that's driving him absolutely insane. And then she falls asleep in his lap with her mouth still parted and he just... breaks. Because up until now, the touching has been external. Hands on thighs, fingers tracing skin, maybe slipping under fabric but still relatively... tame? (I use that word loosely because nothing about this is tame, but you know what I mean.) Chapter 3 is where it gets intimate in a way that can't be rationalized away. Oral sex is personal. It's vulnerable. It's the kind of act that requires you to admit you're not just curious. This chapter is also where I wanted to explore the sensory worship aspect of somnophilia. The way he memorizes every detail of her—taste, smell, the sounds she makes unconsciously, the way her body responds even in sleep. Also, let's talk about the aftermath in this chapter. Because every time Yoongi does something, there's a cost. The guilt doesn't just disappear. It accumulates. It festers. And eventually, it's going to explode. I love torturing my characters, it's a whole thing.

See you in Chapter 4, where things get more interesting. ♡

It becomes a thing.

Not every night. But often enough that Yoongi starts to… notice patterns—you showing up at his apartment after work, complaining about your roommate or the heat or traffic, then somehow ending up unconscious on his couch by ten PM.

And him, awake at midnight. One AM. Two.

Watching you sleep.

Jerking off to the sight of you sprawled across his furniture like you contribute to rent here.

It’s been two weeks since the first time. Two weeks since he came on your thighs and discovered he’s the kind of person who gets off on unconscious permission. Two weeks of telling himself it won’t happen again, and then it does.

Always does.

Because you keep coming back. Keep making yourself at home in his space. Keep falling asleep in positions that seem designed to test exactly how much self-control he has left.

Which is, apparently, none.

The fourth time, you’re wearing his shirt and nothing else, legs bare and slightly parted as you curl into his pillow. He sits on the edge of the bed for twenty minutes trying to talk himself out of it before giving up and pulling his cock out right there, three feet away from your sleeping form.

The sixth time, you fall asleep on your stomach with your ass in the air, and he ends up in his bathroom with his hand wrapped around himself and your name caught between his teeth.

The ninth time, he doesn’t even make it to another room. Just sits on the couch beside where you’re sleeping, cock hard in his hand, watching the way your chest rises and falls beneath the thin tank top you wore over.

You never wake up. Never even stir.

And that’s what makes it worse—the trust. The way you sleep so deeply in his space, so completely unguarded, like you know he’d never hurt you.

Even while he’s doing exactly what you asked him to do.

He’s gotten good at the cleanup, too. Keeps tissues nearby now, plans his timing so he finishes when you’re deepest in sleep. Wipes away evidence like he’s covering up a crime, even though you’re the one who gave him permission in the first place.

Still feels like something he should be ashamed of.

Is ashamed of, technically.

Just not enough to stop.

Then one day you brought it up again.

It was a Thursday. He remembers because you’d come over straight from work, still wearing business casual clothes that you immediately stripped off in favor of his shirt and a pair of shorts you kept in his drawer. The shorts that barely qualify as clothing—more like fabric suggestions.

You’d been sprawled on his couch scrolling through your phone while he made dinner, and you’d just… said it. Casual as anything.

“I’ve been reading more about it,” you had said, nonchalantly as if talking about the weather.

Yoongi hadn’t even looked up from his phone. “About what.”

“That thing we talked about.”

His thumb had paused mid-scroll. “What thing.”

“You know.” You had tasted the broth, made a face, added more seasoning. “Somnophilia stuff.”

And great, fantastic. That’d been exactly the conversation he wanted to have while you were standing in his kitchen wearing his shirt and making food like you live here.

“Cool,” he’d replied flatly. “That’s great information. Really helpful. I’ll file that away in my ‘things I definitely needed to know’ folder.”

“I’m just saying—it’s not just touching, you know? People do everything. Oral. Penetration. The whole thing.”

His grip had tightened on his phone. “And you’re sharing this with me because…?”

“Because I’m giving you permission.” You’d replied. Like it was obvious. Like granting him access to your unconscious body was the same as your fucking Netflix account. “For all of it. Whatever you want to do while I’m asleep—you can.”

The room had gone very quiet, he remembers, because even the ramen seemed to have stopped bubbling.

“That’s—” He hadn’t known how to finish that sentence.

Still doesn’t, if he’s being honest, when he thinks about it.

“I trust you.” You’d said turnin back to the stove, dividing the ramen into two bowls. “And I don’t want to know if you do anything. That’s still the rule. Don’t tell me.”

Then you’d handed him a bowl and sat down at his table like you hadn’t essentially just give him carte blanche to use your body however he wants while you sleep.

And from then on, he really hasn’t been able to think about much else.

It’s a problem.

A growing one, because now he notices things he’s pretty sure he’d never noticed before.

Like the way you fall asleep in positions that seem too premeditated to be accidental—back arched, thighs spread, like you’re testing him, trying to figure out if he’s actually doing what you asked him to do.

It drives him insane.

Because you keep giving him every opportunity to be the kind of person you asked him to be.

The kind of person he’s terrified he wants to be.

Everything, you had said.

Everything.

He wishes that everything meant nothing.

And now—three days later—you’re here again.

“It’s too fucking hot,” you complain, flopping down on his couch with a cherry popsicle already melting between your fingers. “How do people survive summer without central air?”

“They don’t live in shitty apartments,” Yoongi mutters, but his attention isn’t on your complaints about the weather. 

It’s on the way you wrap your lips around the popsicle, tongue darting out to catch the drops of red syrup before they can fall.

A month ago, he would have told you to eat that thing over the sink so you don’t get his couch sticky. Would have complained about you leaving a mess in his apartment like you always do.

Now he’s sitting here with words stuck in his throat because watching you suck on that stupid piece of frozen sugar is making him think about you sucking on something else entirely.

God, he needs a lobotomy.

Why did he agree to this?

Most importantly, why the fuck did he do it?

You shift on the couch, bringing your knees up and letting them fall open as you reach for the remote. The movement is casual, unconscious, but it gives him a perfect view up the loose shorts you’re wearing.

No underwear, he notices. Of course there’s no underwear.

Everything you do feels planned now. Designed to test his self-control, to see how far you can push him before he breaks down and actually touches you the way you asked him to. The way he wants to.

Because that’s the real problem, isn’t it? Not that you asked him to do something fucked up, but that he wants to do it.

Wants to touch you while you’re asleep—defenseless and unconscious. Wants to find out what you feel like, what you taste like, what your mouth does.

Wants to use your sleeping body for his own pleasure, with your full permission.

What kind of person does that make him?

What kind of monster, rather?

“Pick something,” he says, leaning his head back against the couch and closing his eyes. “I don’t care what.”

“You always say that and then complain about my choices.”

“I won’t complain.”

“Promise?”

“Just pick something.”

You scroll through options for a few minutes, popsicle still between your lips, and Yoongi tries to focus on anything other than the soft sucking sounds you’re making.

Or the way your tongue works around the edges, cleaning up the sticky mess before it can drip.

Or the way your lips part to accommodate the width of it.

He’s going to hell. Definitely going to hell for the thoughts running through his head right now.

“Ooh, reality show,” you decide, settling on something loud and mindless. “Perfect for this weather.”

You change positions again, this time moving to rest your head on his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like you haven’t been doing increasingly intimate things that make his thoughts scatter like stars across the night sky.

Yoongi goes rigid for a moment, then forces himself to relax.

This is normal. You’ve done this before. The fact that he can feel the warmth of your cheek through his jeans doesn’t mean anything.

Except it does mean something, and he knows it.

He spreads his thighs slightly, giving you more room to get comfortable, and you make a small sound of contentment as you settle in. Your hand slides under your cheek for cushioning, fingers brushing against his leg, and he has to bite back the way his breath hitches.

“Better?” he asks, voice slightly brittle.

“Mmm.” You’re still working on the popsicle, completely oblivious to the way he’s staring down at you. “You’re a good pillow.”

A good pillow. Right. That’s all he is to you—furniture. A convenient place to rest your head while you suck on frozen treats and watch garbage television.

And you know, that’s fine, really. This is how it should be. You trusting him enough to be vulnerable around him because you don’t see him as a threat. Don’t see him as the kind of person who would take advantage of your unconscious body, even with permission.

And yet he finds himself admiring the way your lips move around the popsicle. The way your tongue darts out to catch the syrup. The way you hollow your cheeks slightly when you suck.

TV screen. He needs to focus on the TV screen. Eyes up.

Watches two women scream at each other about something trivial while a third woman cries in the background. Perfect mindless bullshit that requires no attention or thought.

But then you shift in his lap, getting more comfortable, and your hair falls across his thigh like silk. Soft and warm and smelling like that body wash you use—the same scent that clings to his sheets after you sleep in his bed.

“This show is trash,” you mumble around the popsicle.

“You picked it.”

“I like trash. Trash is comforting.”

“That explains our friendship.”

You laugh, the sound vibrating against his leg, and take another long suck of the popsicle. Red syrup stains your lips, makes them look swollen and slick, and Yoongi has to grip the arm of the couch to keep from doing something stupid.

Like brushing his thumb across your mouth. Like swiping off that red residue and finding out if you taste as sweet as you look.

“You’re being weird,” you observe, tilting your head to look up at him. “Weirder than usual.”

“I’m not being weird.”

“You’re being very still. And quiet. Usually you complain about my show choices.”

“Maybe I’m evolving.”

“Doubtful.” You go back to your popsicle, but he can feel you watching him from the corner of your eye. “Are you okay?”

No.

He’s not okay.

He hasn’t been okay since you asked him to touch you in your sleep and he discovered he actually wanted to do it. Since he came on your thighs and realized he’s the kind of person who gets off on unconscious consent.

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

“Watch your show.”

You do, eventually, but not before giving him one more searching look that makes him feel like you can see straight through him.

Like you know exactly what effect you’re having on him and you’re enjoying every second of it.

Which is impossible. Because you’re oblivious. You have to be oblivious, or you wouldn’t keep doing these things. Wouldn’t keep pushing boundaries and testing limits like you’re trying to see how far you can go before he snaps.

Unless… that’s exactly what you’re doing?

The thought hits him like ice water, sobering and terrifying.

What if this isn’t innocent? What if you know exactly what you’re doing to him, and you’re doing it on purpose? What if you’re trying to drive him crazy, trying to push him into actually touching you the way you asked?

What if you want him to break?

Is that what you’re trying to do here?

“I think I’m gonna crash here tonight,” you announce during a commercial break, as if this wasn’t always the plan.

As if you ever intended to go back to your own apartment.

He knows you wouldn’t.

“Fine.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Would it matter if I did?”

You grin up at him, popsicle stick still between your lips. “Nope.”

Of course it wouldn’t.

You’ve been making yourself at home in his space for years, treating his apartment like an extension of your own.

The only thing that’s changed is his awareness of it.

“You’re gonna fall asleep on my lap,” he says, because you’re already looking drowsy. The heat and the sugar crash from the popsicle are making your eyelids heavy.

“Maybe.”

“Then I’ll be stuck here all night.”

“Poor you.”

“I’ll get a crick in my neck.”

“I’ll give you a massage tomorrow.”

He doesn’t know why the offer makes something curl in his stomach. It’s innocent, casual, nothing to get his panties in a twist over.

But he can picture it too easily—your hands on his shoulders, working out the knots and tension. Your fingers on his skin, careful and thorough and completely trusting.

He wonders if you’d make those soft sounds while you worked.

If you’d bite your lip in concentration the way you do when you’re focused on something.

If you’d let him return the favor.

“Just go to bed when you get tired,” he says instead.

“But I’m comfortable here.”

“You’ll be more comfortable in an actual bed.”

“Your bed or the couch?”

The question shouldn’t matter. You’ve slept in both places dozens of times. But now there’s weight to it, implication that makes his pulse kick up.

“Wherever you want.”

“Hmm.” You suck on the popsicle stick, getting the last traces of flavor, and Yoongi has to look away. “I’ll decide later.”

Later.

When you’re tired and pliant and trusting enough to fall asleep wherever you land. When he’ll have to make the choice between leaving you alone or taking what you offered him weeks ago.

What you keep offering him, night after night, with every position you sleep in and every piece of clothing you don’t wear.

He just sighs, lets you get away with it because when it comes to you that’s just what he does. Every time.

And then, at some point, your breathing deepens, evens out. Head heavy against his thigh, body going limp in that boneless way that means you’re really out. Not just dozing. Actually asleep.

The wooden stick dangles from your slightly parted lips.

Yoongi forces his attention back to the television.

Two women arguing about someone’s boyfriend, dramatic music swelling as one storms off stage.

See? He can do this. He’s a normal human being sitting on his couch watching reality TV while his best friend sleeps in his lap.

Nothing weird about it.

Nothing perverted or wrong.

That thing two weeks ago—that was just arousal. Heat of the moment. Some fucked-up horny impulse his brain conjured up because he’s been stressed and you’d been asking him weird questions about consent and somnophilia.

But he’s normal. He’s not a creep.

He’s fine.

His eyes drift down to your face and catch on the stick.

It’s going to fall. Slip right out of your mouth and onto his jeans, leaving a sticky residue that’ll be impossible to explain tomorrow.

You always fall asleep with things in your mouth—pens, straws, your own fingers when you’re really tired.

Oral fixation, you’d joked once, like it was funny instead of distracting.

He should remove it. Basic courtesy. You’d do the same for him.

Yoongi reaches down and carefully pinches the end of the stick between his fingers. Your lips part slightly as he slides it free, mouth staying open in a soft ‘o’ that makes something twist low in his stomach.

When did your lips get so plump?

They’re swollen from the cold, glistening with traces of cherry syrup. Red and wet and slightly parted, like you’re waiting for something. Like you’re inviting him to—

No.

Absolutely fucking not.

He drops the stick on the coffee table and looks back at the TV. Focuses on the manufactured drama, the fake tears, the scripted arguments designed to keep people watching.

But then his eyes drift back. Catch the way your tongue darts out to wet your lips in sleep. The way your mouth stays open, soft and accessible and so fucking ready it makes his chest tight.

Jesus Christ, why is he getting hard?

Not because of you. Not because you’re sleeping in his lap with your mouth open like some kind of invitation. It’s just biology. Random arousal that has nothing to do with the way you look right now—defenseless and trusting and completely unaware of what you’re doing to him.

Your head shifts slightly, settles deeper into his thigh. Closer to where his cock is starting to strain against his jeans.

This is fine. This is normal. Friends sleep on each other all the time.

The fact that your warm breath is ghosting across his leg doesn’t mean anything. The fact that your lips are still parted, still glistening, still looking like they’re begging to be touched—

That doesn’t mean anything either.

But Jesus your mouth—

It’s right there. Right fucking there, inches from his cock, open and inviting and completely unconscious.

And your lips looked so good wrapped around that popsicle, and the way your tongue worked around the edges was criminal and he can’t even comment on the soft sucking noises because otherwise he’ll pop a full-on boner.

«Everything. Oral, penetration, all of it.»

The only rule is not to tell you.

Well, this would definitely qualify.

Your breathing is deep and even, completely relaxed. Dead to the world, the way you always are when you crash at his place.

He could unzip his jeans right now. Could free his cock and brush it against your lips, see if you’d react in your sleep. See if you’d part them wider, if you’d make those soft sounds from your dreams.

He could fuck your mouth slow and careful, use you the way you asked him to use you, and you’d never know it happened.

Unless you woke up.

Then he would absolutely stop, because that’s the boundary you set. And he’d be mortified and he’d try to crawl into a fucking hole for the rest of his life.

Long live to buried Min Yoongi, he guesses.

But the thing is—you won’t wake up. You never do. You sleep like the dead when you’re comfortable, and you’re always comfortable here. In his space, wearing his clothes, trusting him not to take advantage even though you literally asked him to take advantage.

The contradiction makes his head spin.

Your lips part a little wider as you exhale, and Yoongi bites back a groan.

Because this is what you wanted, isn’t it? This exact situation.

You unconscious and vulnerable while he decides what to do with the permission you gave him.

Permission to touch you however he wants.

Permission to use your sleeping body for his own pleasure.

Permission to find out what your mouth feels like wrapped around his cock.

His hand moves to his zipper before he can stop himself, fingers trembling as he eases it down.

You don’t stir. Don’t even twitch.Just keep breathing soft and even against his thigh while he frees his cock from his jeans.

It’s already hard, already leaking, and the sight of it so close to your parted lips makes him dizzy with want.

All he has to do is shift slightly. Angle his hips. Guide himself between your lips and—

Your tongue darts out again, unconscious reflex, and barely grazes the head of his cock.

He bites down hard on his knuckles, to the point he only realizes he’s bleeding from the taste of copper on his mouth.

Holy fucking fuck.

Your tongue is warm and wet and softer than anything has a right to be, and the fact that you did it in your sleep—that you touched him without knowing, without meaning to—makes it somehow more intense.

More wrong.

More perfect.

There should be a form for this. Some kind of demonic contract contract he could sign in triplicate to expedite the whole damnation process, skip the middleman, go straight to whatever circle of hell is reserved for best friends who get hard from their sleeping friend’s accidental tongue contact.

Probably a new circle. One they’ll have to commission specifically for him.

The ninth-and-a-half circle, maybe. For people who had explicit consent but still feel like absolute garbage about it.

Population: one.

And the wild part—the part that really just annihilates whatever’s left of his moral center—is that you asked for this. Looked him dead in the eye over coffee and suggested he use your unconscious body however he wanted.

Who does that?

You're asleep two inches from his cock and it's somehow entirely his fault and entirely yours, and his brain is doing somersaults trying to figure out how both things can be true simultaneously.

Schrödinger's pervert.

Perverted and not perverted until someone observes the situation and collapses the waveform.

Except no one's observing. Just him and you and the dark apartment and the choice he's about to make.

Has already made, really. The second he freed his cock. The second he angled himself close enough to feel your breath on sensitive skin.

There's no going back from this.

Hell can wait, apparently. Has to. Because his body's already moving, hips shifting forward, and the first touch of your lower lip against the head of his cock whites out every coherent thought in his skull.

Warm. Soft. Wet from where your tongue unconsciously dampened them.

It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel this fucking right, for fuck’s sake.

But it does.

God, it does.

He guides himself between your lips with shaking fingers. Just the tip. Just enough to feel the wet heat of your mouth, the way your tongue rests soft and still against him.

It's too much, the trust radiating from your sleeping form. The way you stay under, breathing deep and even like the tide pulling out. Like you're anchored to some rhythm he can't reach.

He thinks about the way you curl up in his bed sometimes, how you take up all the space and none of it at the same time.

How you glow silver in the streetlight through his blinds.

Manwol. Whole moon.

And he's doing this to you, and it’s better than every fantasy he's had. Better than jerking off while staring at your sleeping form. Better than anything.

And that's the problem, isn't it?

That it feels this good. That his body is screaming yes while his brain scrambles for purchase on something that isn't slick guilt and hotter want.

He pushes in another inch, slow and careful and basically fighting every instinct telling him to thrust deeper, to take—

But he can't. Won't. You'd choke. You'd wake. And then this ends, and he'd have to look at you knowing he couldn't even do this right.

Your tongue shifts against him—completely involuntary—and he slides his free hand to your jaw. Fingers gentle. Steadying. Not forcing. Never that.

Just holding you while he takes what you offered weeks ago in his kitchen with a mug of coffee and a smile like a dare.

Another inch. Then another, but still shallow. Can't go deep. Shouldn't. The angle's wrong and your throat would seize and then you'd jerk awake with tears in your eyes and—

Stop thinking.

The shallow thrusts are enough. More than enough.

He pulls back, pushes in, finds a pace that's careful and desperate at the same time.

Enough to feel you, not enough to hurt you.

Enough to chase the high, not enough to shatter the fantasy.

He fumbles once, going a bit too deep, a bit too fast.

Your eyebrows draw together, face scrunching slightly, and he freezes.

Heart hammering. Cockhead resting between your lips. Waiting for your eyes to snap open, for you to pull away, for this to end in the worst possible way—

But you don't wake.

Just settle back into sleep with his cock still between your lips like it belongs there.

Jesus Christ.

He starts moving again. Has to. Can't stop now even if he wanted to, and he doesn't—doesn't—want to stop. Wants to keep feeling your mouth around him, wants to memorize every detail of this moment because tomorrow you'll wake up with no memory and he'll have to carry this alone.

Shallow thrusts again, controlled, careful.

You take him so well.

So fucking good even asleep.

He wonders—just for a second—what it would be like if you were awake. If you were looking up at him with those eyes, mouth full of his cock, maybe teasing him about finally giving in. Maybe asking for more. Maybe—

The fantasy bursts so bright behind his eyelids he has to tilt his head back, teeth sinking deeper into his knuckles to choke back the groan trying to claw its way out.

Would you moan around him? Would you look at him while he fucked your mouth, eyes half-lidded and knowing? Would you tease him after, say something like “You liked that, didn’t you?” like you hadn’t been the one begging for it?

He feels the weight settle on his chest.

The knowledge that he’s the only one who’ll ever know how you feel like this.

How your lips feel around his cock.

How your tongue molds to the shape of him.

How your eyebrows scrunch when he loses it a little.

You’ll wake up tomorrow with no idea.

No memory of his cock in your mouth.

No clue how perfectly you took him.

And he hates that he likes that.

Hates that the secrecy is starting to feel like a drug.

Hates that the thought of you never knowing makes his pulse spike.

Hates that he’s already wondering when he’ll get to do this again.

But he does.

He likes it.

Fucking likes it.

The private knowledge. The stolen intimacy. The fact that this—this—is something only he gets to have. Something you gave him and only him, even if you don’t remember giving it.

He feels sick.

He feels heady.

He feels wanton.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t want to stop.

His orgasm builds fast. Too fast. Coiling tight in his gut, threatening to snap.

Your mouth is perfect. Warm. Wet. Yielding.

Not his. Never his.

But known.

Felt.

Had.

And that’s enough.

More than enough.

But he can’t—

Can’t finish like this.

Because doing so would likely mean you waking up with cum in your mouth—and if he’s falling down this rabbit hole already, he’s honoring your rule.

You don’t want to know if he does any of this.

So he pulls out fast, cock slipping from your lips with an obscene wet sound that makes his whole body clench. Your mouth stays open for a second—confused, seeking—before your lips close and you settle back into sleep.

Unaware. Still gone.

His hand wraps around his cock immediately, grip tight and desperate, and he jerks himself with quick brutal strokes. No finesse. No control. Just the raw need to finish what your mouth started.

His other hand cups your jaw. Steadies you. Angles your face toward him and—

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck—

He comes with a muffled groan, head tilted back, as he spills across your face. Hot ropes of cum paint your cheek, your lips, the bridge of your nose. 

And you don’t even know.

Don’t stir. Don’t wake. Just keep breathing soft and even while evidence of what he’s done drips down your skin.

The sight hits him like a fist to the chest.

You look—

God, you look obscene. Messy and marked and so fucking pretty it makes something crack open behind his ribs. Your lips are still slightly parted, glistening with spit and traces of him. Your cheek is flushed from sleep and heat, streaked white where he came on you.

What the fuck did he just do?

His hand trembles as he releases his cock, lets it hang half-hard and spent between his legs. Can’t look away from your face. From the proof of his depravity painted across your sleeping features.

You wanted him to do this, he knows, he reminds himself of that fact.

But looking at you now—sweet and trusting and completely unaware—makes his stomach twist with something that feels dangerously close to shame.

Yoongi forces himself to move. Leans sideways toward the coffee table without jostling your head too much. His fingers find the drawer handle, ease it open with minimal sound.

Baby wipes. Pack of them shoved in the back corner because you’re always leaving your makeup on when you crash here and he got tired of you complaining about breakouts.

He pulls one free. Then another. Holds them in his fist while he stares down at you, trying to figure out how to do this without waking you.

Mouth still soft and parted. Breathing steady as a metronome.

Trusting him. Even now. Especially now.

He brings the wipe to your cheek first. Touches so gently it barely registers as contact. Wipes away the evidence like you’re made of moon dust.

Like you might blink awake if he presses too hard.

The wipe comes away streaked and damp, and he folds it over, keeps going. Your nose next. He wipes it clean and steady even though his pulse is hammering.

Your lips are the hardest part.

He should just—wipe them off. Quick and efficient. Get rid of the proof and move on.

But his hand hovers there for a long moment, frozen by the sight of your mouth glistening with traces of him.

So fucking pretty.

He cleans your lips with the edge of the wipe, dragging it slow across the plump swell of them. Your breath hitches—tiny response, unconscious—and he freezes again.

Waiting. Heart in his throat.

But once again, you don’t wake. Just exhale soft and even.

Pretty. You’re so fucking pretty like this.

Not some unattainable fantasy. Not the best friend he’s supposed to keep his hands off. Just you, soft and warm and real in his lap, face clean and peaceful like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t just use your mouth and come on your face and wipe away the evidence.

Like he’s not the kind of person who would do that to someone he—

Don’t.

Don’t finish that thought. Don’t make this worse.

His chest constricts. Tightens until breathing feels like work. Until the weight of what he’s done settles into his bones and refuses to leave.

You asked for this. Wanted it. Gave him permission to do whatever he wanted while you slept.

So why does it feel like he just broke something he can’t fix?

He crumples the wipes in his fist. Tucks them into his pocket because he can’t can’t risk waking you now.

He tucks himself back into his jeans with shaking hands, zips up, tries to breathe normally.

You shift slightly in his lap. Turning your face into his thigh, hand curling under your cheek like you’re burrowing deeper into sleep. Seeking warmth. Comfort.

From him.

Like you miss him already.

Like you want him back.

Completely unaware of what just happened.

Of what he just did to you.

With you.

For you.

Because of you.

And tomorrow you'll wake up and stretch and complain about sleeping on the couch, and he'll make you coffee and pretend this never happened.

Because that's what you wanted. The not-knowing. The uncertainty.

The permission to want him without having to admit it.

And the truth—the real truth, the one he can't say out loud—is that he's been thinking about this every day since you asked. Turning it over in his mind during quiet moments, imagining what it would feel like, hating himself for wanting it.

The truth is that he just lived it.

And the truth is that he's already planning the next time.

©️ kikiskook aka @jungkoode 2025.

do not translate. do not repost.

TL: @billy-jeans23 @hoelychildofgod @kam9404 @myantcha @yoongiiuu93 @gojomyoneandonly @tsibba01 @jazzluvrr @questioninglifeismypurpose @withmuchluv-tannie @lepples2015 @madiilolz @rntcdsc @dwahaaus @billy-jeans23 @kittycat1dsn @amarawayne @radicaltrashwrites @redcherrytea @dprlive230 @hanniescherries @mar-lo-pap @queenbloody @littlestarstinyseven @yunamay1248 @supernoonanyc @ddaengielle @xmarrx @stydixmxrtinski @shadowyjellyfishfest @ilikekpop-c @xxunholyqueenxx @yuyu0y11 @inconsistentpieceofmess @yourlittleslutcums @sadbitchenergy @vespersbells @naesarang07 @iam-wh0 @arrctica @eclipsedfairy @starsyoongi @victorialoce @icantsleephomesick @jjklvrapobangpo7 @jazzluvrr @svnk1ssd @tremblementdesfleurs @teasykes

[kikiskook]

@meigalaxy @viahjgd @mindurbuzznezz @occeanawave @mellyyyyyyx @ot7girl4l @mintyunho @lilbny-blog @yoongiminnie444 @mapleleafsamurai @itssluthourhere @03galaxywriter03 @inconsistentpieceofmess @joonie1213 @dropdeadbec @fancypeacepersona

[kikiskook]

MOON DREAMS

03. 반달 | BANDAL (half moon)

You bring snacks and a popsicle. Cherry red one that stains your lips the color of something he shouldn't be thinking about. He watches you eat it, watches your tongue work, watches the way your mouth moves until he has to look away. Then you fall asleep in his lap, head heavy against his thigh, mouth still parted. The stick dangles from your lips. He should move it. Should wake you. Should do literally anything except what he's actually considering.

☾ masterlist | moon dreams masterpost

rating ; 18+ | explicit

genre ; bsf to lovers, somnophilia kink, smut, angst, porn with plot

word count ; 4,4k

warnings ; explicit sexual content, consensual somnophilia, male oral sex (giving), (= blowjob), cum on face, clean-up, internal guilt spiral, obsessive thoughts, oral fixation

☁️ rundown ; You've always shared everything with your best friend—beds, clothes, sleep, silence. But one day, you offer him something else: yourself. Unconscious. "Do whatever you want," you say. "Just don't tell me." At first, he's stunned. He's not like that. Not a pervert. Not a creep. But when you fall asleep on his couch in nothing but his shirt, thighs bare, lips parted—he starts thinking. What if you meant it? What if he tried… just once?

a/n ; Welcome to the halfway point. Chapter 3. The half moon. Which feels cosmically appropriate considering this is where we officially cross the threshold from ‘maybe this is still innocent’ to ‘yeah no, there's no going back from this.’ Soooo, the popsicle. HAHAHAHA. Yes, I know. I know. It's the most heavy-handed symbolism I've ever written and I'm not even sorry about it. (okay maybe a little sorry) (but also not really) The popsicle scene is deliberate—it's visual torture for Yoongi. It's watching her mouth work on something sweet and cold and red, watching the way her tongue moves, watching her be unconsciously sensual in a way that's driving him absolutely insane. And then she falls asleep in his lap with her mouth still parted and he just... breaks. Because up until now, the touching has been external. Hands on thighs, fingers tracing skin, maybe slipping under fabric but still relatively... tame? (I use that word loosely because nothing about this is tame, but you know what I mean.) Chapter 3 is where it gets intimate in a way that can't be rationalized away. Oral sex is personal. It's vulnerable. It's the kind of act that requires you to admit you're not just curious. This chapter is also where I wanted to explore the sensory worship aspect of somnophilia. The way he memorizes every detail of her—taste, smell, the sounds she makes unconsciously, the way her body responds even in sleep. Also, let's talk about the aftermath in this chapter. Because every time Yoongi does something, there's a cost. The guilt doesn't just disappear. It accumulates. It festers. And eventually, it's going to explode. I love torturing my characters, it's a whole thing.

See you in Chapter 4, where things get more interesting. ♡

It becomes a thing.

Not every night. But often enough that Yoongi starts to… notice patterns—you showing up at his apartment after work, complaining about your roommate or the heat or traffic, then somehow ending up unconscious on his couch by ten PM.

And him, awake at midnight. One AM. Two.

Watching you sleep.

Jerking off to the sight of you sprawled across his furniture like you contribute to rent here.

It’s been two weeks since the first time. Two weeks since he came on your thighs and discovered he’s the kind of person who gets off on unconscious permission. Two weeks of telling himself it won’t happen again, and then it does.

Always does.

Because you keep coming back. Keep making yourself at home in his space. Keep falling asleep in positions that seem designed to test exactly how much self-control he has left.

Which is, apparently, none.

The fourth time, you’re wearing his shirt and nothing else, legs bare and slightly parted as you curl into his pillow. He sits on the edge of the bed for twenty minutes trying to talk himself out of it before giving up and pulling his cock out right there, three feet away from your sleeping form.

The sixth time, you fall asleep on your stomach with your ass in the air, and he ends up in his bathroom with his hand wrapped around himself and your name caught between his teeth.

The ninth time, he doesn’t even make it to another room. Just sits on the couch beside where you’re sleeping, cock hard in his hand, watching the way your chest rises and falls beneath the thin tank top you wore over.

You never wake up. Never even stir.

And that’s what makes it worse—the trust. The way you sleep so deeply in his space, so completely unguarded, like you know he’d never hurt you.

Even while he’s doing exactly what you asked him to do.

He’s gotten good at the cleanup, too. Keeps tissues nearby now, plans his timing so he finishes when you’re deepest in sleep. Wipes away evidence like he’s covering up a crime, even though you’re the one who gave him permission in the first place.

Still feels like something he should be ashamed of.

Is ashamed of, technically.

Just not enough to stop.

Then one day you brought it up again.

It was a Thursday. He remembers because you’d come over straight from work, still wearing business casual clothes that you immediately stripped off in favor of his shirt and a pair of shorts you kept in his drawer. The shorts that barely qualify as clothing—more like fabric suggestions.

You’d been sprawled on his couch scrolling through your phone while he made dinner, and you’d just… said it. Casual as anything.

“I’ve been reading more about it,” you had said, nonchalantly as if talking about the weather.

Yoongi hadn’t even looked up from his phone. “About what.”

“That thing we talked about.”

His thumb had paused mid-scroll. “What thing.”

“You know.” You had tasted the broth, made a face, added more seasoning. “Somnophilia stuff.”

And great, fantastic. That’d been exactly the conversation he wanted to have while you were standing in his kitchen wearing his shirt and making food like you live here.

“Cool,” he’d replied flatly. “That’s great information. Really helpful. I’ll file that away in my ‘things I definitely needed to know’ folder.”

“I’m just saying—it’s not just touching, you know? People do everything. Oral. Penetration. The whole thing.”

His grip had tightened on his phone. “And you’re sharing this with me because…?”

“Because I’m giving you permission.” You’d replied. Like it was obvious. Like granting him access to your unconscious body was the same as your fucking Netflix account. “For all of it. Whatever you want to do while I’m asleep—you can.”

The room had gone very quiet, he remembers, because even the ramen seemed to have stopped bubbling.

“That’s—” He hadn’t known how to finish that sentence.

Still doesn’t, if he’s being honest, when he thinks about it.

“I trust you.” You’d said turnin back to the stove, dividing the ramen into two bowls. “And I don’t want to know if you do anything. That’s still the rule. Don’t tell me.”

Then you’d handed him a bowl and sat down at his table like you hadn’t essentially just give him carte blanche to use your body however he wants while you sleep.

And from then on, he really hasn’t been able to think about much else.

It’s a problem.

A growing one, because now he notices things he’s pretty sure he’d never noticed before.

Like the way you fall asleep in positions that seem too premeditated to be accidental—back arched, thighs spread, like you’re testing him, trying to figure out if he’s actually doing what you asked him to do.

It drives him insane.

Because you keep giving him every opportunity to be the kind of person you asked him to be.

The kind of person he’s terrified he wants to be.

Everything, you had said.

Everything.

He wishes that everything meant nothing.

And now—three days later—you’re here again.

“It’s too fucking hot,” you complain, flopping down on his couch with a cherry popsicle already melting between your fingers. “How do people survive summer without central air?”

“They don’t live in shitty apartments,” Yoongi mutters, but his attention isn’t on your complaints about the weather. 

It’s on the way you wrap your lips around the popsicle, tongue darting out to catch the drops of red syrup before they can fall.

A month ago, he would have told you to eat that thing over the sink so you don’t get his couch sticky. Would have complained about you leaving a mess in his apartment like you always do.

Now he’s sitting here with words stuck in his throat because watching you suck on that stupid piece of frozen sugar is making him think about you sucking on something else entirely.

God, he needs a lobotomy.

Why did he agree to this?

Most importantly, why the fuck did he do it?

You shift on the couch, bringing your knees up and letting them fall open as you reach for the remote. The movement is casual, unconscious, but it gives him a perfect view up the loose shorts you’re wearing.

No underwear, he notices. Of course there’s no underwear.

Everything you do feels planned now. Designed to test his self-control, to see how far you can push him before he breaks down and actually touches you the way you asked him to. The way he wants to.

Because that’s the real problem, isn’t it? Not that you asked him to do something fucked up, but that he wants to do it.

Wants to touch you while you’re asleep—defenseless and unconscious. Wants to find out what you feel like, what you taste like, what your mouth does.

Wants to use your sleeping body for his own pleasure, with your full permission.

What kind of person does that make him?

What kind of monster, rather?

“Pick something,” he says, leaning his head back against the couch and closing his eyes. “I don’t care what.”

“You always say that and then complain about my choices.”

“I won’t complain.”

“Promise?”

“Just pick something.”

You scroll through options for a few minutes, popsicle still between your lips, and Yoongi tries to focus on anything other than the soft sucking sounds you’re making.

Or the way your tongue works around the edges, cleaning up the sticky mess before it can drip.

Or the way your lips part to accommodate the width of it.

He’s going to hell. Definitely going to hell for the thoughts running through his head right now.

“Ooh, reality show,” you decide, settling on something loud and mindless. “Perfect for this weather.”

You change positions again, this time moving to rest your head on his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like you haven’t been doing increasingly intimate things that make his thoughts scatter like stars across the night sky.

Yoongi goes rigid for a moment, then forces himself to relax.

This is normal. You’ve done this before. The fact that he can feel the warmth of your cheek through his jeans doesn’t mean anything.

Except it does mean something, and he knows it.

He spreads his thighs slightly, giving you more room to get comfortable, and you make a small sound of contentment as you settle in. Your hand slides under your cheek for cushioning, fingers brushing against his leg, and he has to bite back the way his breath hitches.

“Better?” he asks, voice slightly brittle.

“Mmm.” You’re still working on the popsicle, completely oblivious to the way he’s staring down at you. “You’re a good pillow.”

A good pillow. Right. That’s all he is to you—furniture. A convenient place to rest your head while you suck on frozen treats and watch garbage television.

And you know, that’s fine, really. This is how it should be. You trusting him enough to be vulnerable around him because you don’t see him as a threat. Don’t see him as the kind of person who would take advantage of your unconscious body, even with permission.

And yet he finds himself admiring the way your lips move around the popsicle. The way your tongue darts out to catch the syrup. The way you hollow your cheeks slightly when you suck.

TV screen. He needs to focus on the TV screen. Eyes up.

Watches two women scream at each other about something trivial while a third woman cries in the background. Perfect mindless bullshit that requires no attention or thought.

But then you shift in his lap, getting more comfortable, and your hair falls across his thigh like silk. Soft and warm and smelling like that body wash you use—the same scent that clings to his sheets after you sleep in his bed.

“This show is trash,” you mumble around the popsicle.

“You picked it.”

“I like trash. Trash is comforting.”

“That explains our friendship.”

You laugh, the sound vibrating against his leg, and take another long suck of the popsicle. Red syrup stains your lips, makes them look swollen and slick, and Yoongi has to grip the arm of the couch to keep from doing something stupid.

Like brushing his thumb across your mouth. Like swiping off that red residue and finding out if you taste as sweet as you look.

“You’re being weird,” you observe, tilting your head to look up at him. “Weirder than usual.”

“I’m not being weird.”

“You’re being very still. And quiet. Usually you complain about my show choices.”

“Maybe I’m evolving.”

“Doubtful.” You go back to your popsicle, but he can feel you watching him from the corner of your eye. “Are you okay?”

No.

He’s not okay.

He hasn’t been okay since you asked him to touch you in your sleep and he discovered he actually wanted to do it. Since he came on your thighs and realized he’s the kind of person who gets off on unconscious consent.

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

“Watch your show.”

You do, eventually, but not before giving him one more searching look that makes him feel like you can see straight through him.

Like you know exactly what effect you’re having on him and you’re enjoying every second of it.

Which is impossible. Because you’re oblivious. You have to be oblivious, or you wouldn’t keep doing these things. Wouldn’t keep pushing boundaries and testing limits like you’re trying to see how far you can go before he snaps.

Unless… that’s exactly what you’re doing?

The thought hits him like ice water, sobering and terrifying.

What if this isn’t innocent? What if you know exactly what you’re doing to him, and you’re doing it on purpose? What if you’re trying to drive him crazy, trying to push him into actually touching you the way you asked?

What if you want him to break?

Is that what you’re trying to do here?

“I think I’m gonna crash here tonight,” you announce during a commercial break, as if this wasn’t always the plan.

As if you ever intended to go back to your own apartment.

He knows you wouldn’t.

“Fine.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Would it matter if I did?”

You grin up at him, popsicle stick still between your lips. “Nope.”

Of course it wouldn’t.

You’ve been making yourself at home in his space for years, treating his apartment like an extension of your own.

The only thing that’s changed is his awareness of it.

“You’re gonna fall asleep on my lap,” he says, because you’re already looking drowsy. The heat and the sugar crash from the popsicle are making your eyelids heavy.

“Maybe.”

“Then I’ll be stuck here all night.”

“Poor you.”

“I’ll get a crick in my neck.”

“I’ll give you a massage tomorrow.”

He doesn’t know why the offer makes something curl in his stomach. It’s innocent, casual, nothing to get his panties in a twist over.

But he can picture it too easily—your hands on his shoulders, working out the knots and tension. Your fingers on his skin, careful and thorough and completely trusting.

He wonders if you’d make those soft sounds while you worked.

If you’d bite your lip in concentration the way you do when you’re focused on something.

If you’d let him return the favor.

“Just go to bed when you get tired,” he says instead.

“But I’m comfortable here.”

“You’ll be more comfortable in an actual bed.”

“Your bed or the couch?”

The question shouldn’t matter. You’ve slept in both places dozens of times. But now there’s weight to it, implication that makes his pulse kick up.

“Wherever you want.”

“Hmm.” You suck on the popsicle stick, getting the last traces of flavor, and Yoongi has to look away. “I’ll decide later.”

Later.

When you’re tired and pliant and trusting enough to fall asleep wherever you land. When he’ll have to make the choice between leaving you alone or taking what you offered him weeks ago.

What you keep offering him, night after night, with every position you sleep in and every piece of clothing you don’t wear.

He just sighs, lets you get away with it because when it comes to you that’s just what he does. Every time.

And then, at some point, your breathing deepens, evens out. Head heavy against his thigh, body going limp in that boneless way that means you’re really out. Not just dozing. Actually asleep.

The wooden stick dangles from your slightly parted lips.

Yoongi forces his attention back to the television.

Two women arguing about someone’s boyfriend, dramatic music swelling as one storms off stage.

See? He can do this. He’s a normal human being sitting on his couch watching reality TV while his best friend sleeps in his lap.

Nothing weird about it.

Nothing perverted or wrong.

That thing two weeks ago—that was just arousal. Heat of the moment. Some fucked-up horny impulse his brain conjured up because he’s been stressed and you’d been asking him weird questions about consent and somnophilia.

But he’s normal. He’s not a creep.

He’s fine.

His eyes drift down to your face and catch on the stick.

It’s going to fall. Slip right out of your mouth and onto his jeans, leaving a sticky residue that’ll be impossible to explain tomorrow.

You always fall asleep with things in your mouth—pens, straws, your own fingers when you’re really tired.

Oral fixation, you’d joked once, like it was funny instead of distracting.

He should remove it. Basic courtesy. You’d do the same for him.

Yoongi reaches down and carefully pinches the end of the stick between his fingers. Your lips part slightly as he slides it free, mouth staying open in a soft ‘o’ that makes something twist low in his stomach.

When did your lips get so plump?

They’re swollen from the cold, glistening with traces of cherry syrup. Red and wet and slightly parted, like you’re waiting for something. Like you’re inviting him to—

No.

Absolutely fucking not.

He drops the stick on the coffee table and looks back at the TV. Focuses on the manufactured drama, the fake tears, the scripted arguments designed to keep people watching.

But then his eyes drift back. Catch the way your tongue darts out to wet your lips in sleep. The way your mouth stays open, soft and accessible and so fucking ready it makes his chest tight.

Jesus Christ, why is he getting hard?

Not because of you. Not because you’re sleeping in his lap with your mouth open like some kind of invitation. It’s just biology. Random arousal that has nothing to do with the way you look right now—defenseless and trusting and completely unaware of what you’re doing to him.

Your head shifts slightly, settles deeper into his thigh. Closer to where his cock is starting to strain against his jeans.

This is fine. This is normal. Friends sleep on each other all the time.

The fact that your warm breath is ghosting across his leg doesn’t mean anything. The fact that your lips are still parted, still glistening, still looking like they’re begging to be touched—

That doesn’t mean anything either.

But Jesus your mouth—

It’s right there. Right fucking there, inches from his cock, open and inviting and completely unconscious.

And your lips looked so good wrapped around that popsicle, and the way your tongue worked around the edges was criminal and he can’t even comment on the soft sucking noises because otherwise he’ll pop a full-on boner.

«Everything. Oral, penetration, all of it.»

The only rule is not to tell you.

Well, this would definitely qualify.

Your breathing is deep and even, completely relaxed. Dead to the world, the way you always are when you crash at his place.

He could unzip his jeans right now. Could free his cock and brush it against your lips, see if you’d react in your sleep. See if you’d part them wider, if you’d make those soft sounds from your dreams.

He could fuck your mouth slow and careful, use you the way you asked him to use you, and you’d never know it happened.

Unless you woke up.

Then he would absolutely stop, because that’s the boundary you set. And he’d be mortified and he’d try to crawl into a fucking hole for the rest of his life.

Long live to buried Min Yoongi, he guesses.

But the thing is—you won’t wake up. You never do. You sleep like the dead when you’re comfortable, and you’re always comfortable here. In his space, wearing his clothes, trusting him not to take advantage even though you literally asked him to take advantage.

The contradiction makes his head spin.

Your lips part a little wider as you exhale, and Yoongi bites back a groan.

Because this is what you wanted, isn’t it? This exact situation.

You unconscious and vulnerable while he decides what to do with the permission you gave him.

Permission to touch you however he wants.

Permission to use your sleeping body for his own pleasure.

Permission to find out what your mouth feels like wrapped around his cock.

His hand moves to his zipper before he can stop himself, fingers trembling as he eases it down.

You don’t stir. Don’t even twitch.Just keep breathing soft and even against his thigh while he frees his cock from his jeans.

It’s already hard, already leaking, and the sight of it so close to your parted lips makes him dizzy with want.

All he has to do is shift slightly. Angle his hips. Guide himself between your lips and—

Your tongue darts out again, unconscious reflex, and barely grazes the head of his cock.

He bites down hard on his knuckles, to the point he only realizes he’s bleeding from the taste of copper on his mouth.

Holy fucking fuck.

Your tongue is warm and wet and softer than anything has a right to be, and the fact that you did it in your sleep—that you touched him without knowing, without meaning to—makes it somehow more intense.

More wrong.

More perfect.

There should be a form for this. Some kind of demonic contract contract he could sign in triplicate to expedite the whole damnation process, skip the middleman, go straight to whatever circle of hell is reserved for best friends who get hard from their sleeping friend’s accidental tongue contact.

Probably a new circle. One they’ll have to commission specifically for him.

The ninth-and-a-half circle, maybe. For people who had explicit consent but still feel like absolute garbage about it.

Population: one.

And the wild part—the part that really just annihilates whatever’s left of his moral center—is that you asked for this. Looked him dead in the eye over coffee and suggested he use your unconscious body however he wanted.

Who does that?

You're asleep two inches from his cock and it's somehow entirely his fault and entirely yours, and his brain is doing somersaults trying to figure out how both things can be true simultaneously.

Schrödinger's pervert.

Perverted and not perverted until someone observes the situation and collapses the waveform.

Except no one's observing. Just him and you and the dark apartment and the choice he's about to make.

Has already made, really. The second he freed his cock. The second he angled himself close enough to feel your breath on sensitive skin.

There's no going back from this.

Hell can wait, apparently. Has to. Because his body's already moving, hips shifting forward, and the first touch of your lower lip against the head of his cock whites out every coherent thought in his skull.

Warm. Soft. Wet from where your tongue unconsciously dampened them.

It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel this fucking right, for fuck’s sake.

But it does.

God, it does.

He guides himself between your lips with shaking fingers. Just the tip. Just enough to feel the wet heat of your mouth, the way your tongue rests soft and still against him.

It's too much, the trust radiating from your sleeping form. The way you stay under, breathing deep and even like the tide pulling out. Like you're anchored to some rhythm he can't reach.

He thinks about the way you curl up in his bed sometimes, how you take up all the space and none of it at the same time.

How you glow silver in the streetlight through his blinds.

Manwol. Whole moon.

And he's doing this to you, and it’s better than every fantasy he's had. Better than jerking off while staring at your sleeping form. Better than anything.

And that's the problem, isn't it?

That it feels this good. That his body is screaming yes while his brain scrambles for purchase on something that isn't slick guilt and hotter want.

He pushes in another inch, slow and careful and basically fighting every instinct telling him to thrust deeper, to take—

But he can't. Won't. You'd choke. You'd wake. And then this ends, and he'd have to look at you knowing he couldn't even do this right.

Your tongue shifts against him—completely involuntary—and he slides his free hand to your jaw. Fingers gentle. Steadying. Not forcing. Never that.

Just holding you while he takes what you offered weeks ago in his kitchen with a mug of coffee and a smile like a dare.

Another inch. Then another, but still shallow. Can't go deep. Shouldn't. The angle's wrong and your throat would seize and then you'd jerk awake with tears in your eyes and—

Stop thinking.

The shallow thrusts are enough. More than enough.

He pulls back, pushes in, finds a pace that's careful and desperate at the same time.

Enough to feel you, not enough to hurt you.

Enough to chase the high, not enough to shatter the fantasy.

He fumbles once, going a bit too deep, a bit too fast.

Your eyebrows draw together, face scrunching slightly, and he freezes.

Heart hammering. Cockhead resting between your lips. Waiting for your eyes to snap open, for you to pull away, for this to end in the worst possible way—

But you don't wake.

Just settle back into sleep with his cock still between your lips like it belongs there.

Jesus Christ.

He starts moving again. Has to. Can't stop now even if he wanted to, and he doesn't—doesn't—want to stop. Wants to keep feeling your mouth around him, wants to memorize every detail of this moment because tomorrow you'll wake up with no memory and he'll have to carry this alone.

Shallow thrusts again, controlled, careful.

You take him so well.

So fucking good even asleep.

He wonders—just for a second—what it would be like if you were awake. If you were looking up at him with those eyes, mouth full of his cock, maybe teasing him about finally giving in. Maybe asking for more. Maybe—

The fantasy bursts so bright behind his eyelids he has to tilt his head back, teeth sinking deeper into his knuckles to choke back the groan trying to claw its way out.

Would you moan around him? Would you look at him while he fucked your mouth, eyes half-lidded and knowing? Would you tease him after, say something like “You liked that, didn’t you?” like you hadn’t been the one begging for it?

He feels the weight settle on his chest.

The knowledge that he’s the only one who’ll ever know how you feel like this.

How your lips feel around his cock.

How your tongue molds to the shape of him.

How your eyebrows scrunch when he loses it a little.

You’ll wake up tomorrow with no idea.

No memory of his cock in your mouth.

No clue how perfectly you took him.

And he hates that he likes that.

Hates that the secrecy is starting to feel like a drug.

Hates that the thought of you never knowing makes his pulse spike.

Hates that he’s already wondering when he’ll get to do this again.

But he does.

He likes it.

Fucking likes it.

The private knowledge. The stolen intimacy. The fact that this—this—is something only he gets to have. Something you gave him and only him, even if you don’t remember giving it.

He feels sick.

He feels heady.

He feels wanton.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t want to stop.

His orgasm builds fast. Too fast. Coiling tight in his gut, threatening to snap.

Your mouth is perfect. Warm. Wet. Yielding.

Not his. Never his.

But known.

Felt.

Had.

And that’s enough.

More than enough.

But he can’t—

Can’t finish like this.

Because doing so would likely mean you waking up with cum in your mouth—and if he’s falling down this rabbit hole already, he’s honoring your rule.

You don’t want to know if he does any of this.

So he pulls out fast, cock slipping from your lips with an obscene wet sound that makes his whole body clench. Your mouth stays open for a second—confused, seeking—before your lips close and you settle back into sleep.

Unaware. Still gone.

His hand wraps around his cock immediately, grip tight and desperate, and he jerks himself with quick brutal strokes. No finesse. No control. Just the raw need to finish what your mouth started.

His other hand cups your jaw. Steadies you. Angles your face toward him and—

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck—

He comes with a muffled groan, head tilted back, as he spills across your face. Hot ropes of cum paint your cheek, your lips, the bridge of your nose. 

And you don’t even know.

Don’t stir. Don’t wake. Just keep breathing soft and even while evidence of what he’s done drips down your skin.

The sight hits him like a fist to the chest.

You look—

God, you look obscene. Messy and marked and so fucking pretty it makes something crack open behind his ribs. Your lips are still slightly parted, glistening with spit and traces of him. Your cheek is flushed from sleep and heat, streaked white where he came on you.

What the fuck did he just do?

His hand trembles as he releases his cock, lets it hang half-hard and spent between his legs. Can’t look away from your face. From the proof of his depravity painted across your sleeping features.

You wanted him to do this, he knows, he reminds himself of that fact.

But looking at you now—sweet and trusting and completely unaware—makes his stomach twist with something that feels dangerously close to shame.

Yoongi forces himself to move. Leans sideways toward the coffee table without jostling your head too much. His fingers find the drawer handle, ease it open with minimal sound.

Baby wipes. Pack of them shoved in the back corner because you’re always leaving your makeup on when you crash here and he got tired of you complaining about breakouts.

He pulls one free. Then another. Holds them in his fist while he stares down at you, trying to figure out how to do this without waking you.

Mouth still soft and parted. Breathing steady as a metronome.

Trusting him. Even now. Especially now.

He brings the wipe to your cheek first. Touches so gently it barely registers as contact. Wipes away the evidence like you’re made of moon dust.

Like you might blink awake if he presses too hard.

The wipe comes away streaked and damp, and he folds it over, keeps going. Your nose next. He wipes it clean and steady even though his pulse is hammering.

Your lips are the hardest part.

He should just—wipe them off. Quick and efficient. Get rid of the proof and move on.

But his hand hovers there for a long moment, frozen by the sight of your mouth glistening with traces of him.

So fucking pretty.

He cleans your lips with the edge of the wipe, dragging it slow across the plump swell of them. Your breath hitches—tiny response, unconscious—and he freezes again.

Waiting. Heart in his throat.

But once again, you don’t wake. Just exhale soft and even.

Pretty. You’re so fucking pretty like this.

Not some unattainable fantasy. Not the best friend he’s supposed to keep his hands off. Just you, soft and warm and real in his lap, face clean and peaceful like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t just use your mouth and come on your face and wipe away the evidence.

Like he’s not the kind of person who would do that to someone he—

Don’t.

Don’t finish that thought. Don’t make this worse.

His chest constricts. Tightens until breathing feels like work. Until the weight of what he’s done settles into his bones and refuses to leave.

You asked for this. Wanted it. Gave him permission to do whatever he wanted while you slept.

So why does it feel like he just broke something he can’t fix?

He crumples the wipes in his fist. Tucks them into his pocket because he can’t can’t risk waking you now.

He tucks himself back into his jeans with shaking hands, zips up, tries to breathe normally.

You shift slightly in his lap. Turning your face into his thigh, hand curling under your cheek like you’re burrowing deeper into sleep. Seeking warmth. Comfort.

From him.

Like you miss him already.

Like you want him back.

Completely unaware of what just happened.

Of what he just did to you.

With you.

For you.

Because of you.

And tomorrow you'll wake up and stretch and complain about sleeping on the couch, and he'll make you coffee and pretend this never happened.

Because that's what you wanted. The not-knowing. The uncertainty.

The permission to want him without having to admit it.

And the truth—the real truth, the one he can't say out loud—is that he's been thinking about this every day since you asked. Turning it over in his mind during quiet moments, imagining what it would feel like, hating himself for wanting it.

The truth is that he just lived it.

And the truth is that he's already planning the next time.

©️ kikiskook aka @jungkoode 2025.

do not translate. do not repost.

TL: @billy-jeans23 @hoelychildofgod @kam9404 @myantcha @yoongiiuu93 @gojomyoneandonly @tsibba01 @jazzluvrr @questioninglifeismypurpose @withmuchluv-tannie @lepples2015 @madiilolz @rntcdsc @dwahaaus @billy-jeans23 @kittycat1dsn @amarawayne @radicaltrashwrites @redcherrytea @dprlive230 @hanniescherries @mar-lo-pap @queenbloody @littlestarstinyseven @yunamay1248 @supernoonanyc @ddaengielle @xmarrx @stydixmxrtinski @shadowyjellyfishfest @ilikekpop-c @xxunholyqueenxx @yuyu0y11 @inconsistentpieceofmess @yourlittleslutcums @sadbitchenergy @vespersbells @naesarang07 @iam-wh0 @arrctica @eclipsedfairy @starsyoongi @victorialoce @icantsleephomesick @jjklvrapobangpo7 @jazzluvrr @svnk1ssd @tremblementdesfleurs @teasykes

[kikiskook]

MOON DREAMS

02. 초승 | CHOSEUNG (waxing crescent)

It's been three days since you asked. Three days of him pretending he didn't hear the question. Then you show up with soju and terrible movie choices, and you fall asleep on his couch wearing his boxers like you own them. Like you own him. His hand settles on your thigh. Just to see. Just to test if this is real or if he's losing his mind. You don't wake up. That's the problem. You don't wake up, and his hand doesn't stop moving.

☾ masterlist | moon dreams masterpost

rating ; 18+ | explicit

genre ; bsf to lovers, somnophilia kink, smut, angst, porn with plot

word count ; 4.3k

warnings ; consensual somnophilia (first instance), non-penetrative sexual touching, heavy petting while unconscious, internal moral conflict, guilt, sexual content, male masturbation, jerking off whilst your bsf sleeps, realization your bsf has nice thighs, cum on thighs, panic

☁️ rundown ; You've always shared everything with your best friend—beds, clothes, sleep, silence. But one day, you offer him something else: yourself. Unconscious. "Do whatever you want," you say. "Just don't tell me." At first, he's stunned. He's not like that. Not a pervert. Not a creep. But when you fall asleep on his couch in nothing but his shirt, thighs bare, lips parted—he starts thinking. What if you meant it? What if he tried… just once?

a/n ; Hi. Back on my bullshit. Yup. Chapter 1 was all talk—consent negotiation, ethical hand-wringing, Yoongi having a full-blown moral crisis in his own kitchen. Chapter 2? Chapter 2 is where the doing starts. And let me tell you, writing this chapter felt like watching someone stand at the edge of a pool for twenty minutes, dipping one toe in, pulling it back out, staring at the water like it personally offended them—and then finally jumping in. Except the pool is his best friend's thigh and the water is his rapidly deteriorating self-control. (Look, the metaphor falls apart if you think about it too hard. Just go with it.) Sooo about MOOND!Yoongi. He's not impulsive. He doesn't just do things. He thinks, he spirals, he rationalizes, he convinces himself he's not going to do the thing—and then he does it anyway, but only after he's tortured himself about it for three days straight. That's the psychology I'm working with here. This is not a man who's going to just dive headfirst into somnophilia the second he gets permission. That would be unrealistic and, frankly, out of character. So yeah, the first touch is agonizing for him, and you’re gonna suffer through it with him. It's ‘what the fuck am I doing’ and ‘this is insane’ and ‘she's going to wake up and realize I'm a pervert and never speak to me again.’ But then she doesn't wake up. And that's when things shift. Because somnophilia as a kink is about the permission. The safety of it. The trust. Now—while I’ve got you by the collar—lemme just slide in a little note about a writing choice I made here that you might clock as weird. Walk with me. No, not the nickname—I know how I am about those and I’m not apologizing, ever, I’ll die on that hill with a wine glass in hand. It’s about using ‘You:’ for Yoongi’s contact in the messages. No, that wasn’t a mistake. It’s not lazy formatting. I didn’t black out and forget which POV we were in. That was intentional. Y’all know I’m a stickler for limited POV. It’s always tight to the character’s perspective, always filtered through their perceptions and mental framework, even if it’s not first person. So when he opens his phone and sees a message? It’s gonna say ‘You:’ because he’s reading it. That’s his POV. That’s how he sees the chat. So yeah, even if we’re reading in third, the phone isn’t gonna say ‘Yoongi: hey’ like it’s floating in some neutral observer void. It’s his head. His phone. His mental space. ‘You:’ is what he sees, and so that’s what you see. That’s why it matters. It’s funny and I wanted to address it because I thought about it for quiiiite a while. Anyway, if you thought it was a weird flex… you’re absolutely right. I’m out here being annoying on purpose. I’m a menace and I believe in artistic consistency. Let me live.

(Also yes, the soju and terrible movie night setup is self-indulgent domestic fluff because I'm weak for that shit. Sue me. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

Enjoy, you beautiful perverts. See you in Chapter 3. ♡

How did his life become a series of text message negotiations over flavored alcohol for someone who doesn’t even live here?

Yoongi stares at his phone screen, scrolling through an hour’s worth of messages that started with a simple ‘coming over’ and devolved into you demanding he curate your drinking experience like some kind of personal sommelier.

He stares at the colorful soju bottles, which somehow manage to look washed out in the sickly yellow glow the fluorescent lights of the convenience store provide.

He’s standing in the alcohol aisle at nine-thirty on a Wednesday night, which should be embarrassing, but mostly he’s just tired.

Tired of making decisions for someone who claims to be an adult but texts like a sugar-addicted teenager.

His phone buzzes again.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟸 𝙿𝙼): 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟸 𝙿𝙼): 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟸 𝙿𝙼): 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝟿:𝟹𝟹 𝙿𝙼): 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟹 𝙿𝙼): 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟺 𝙿𝙼): 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚢 𝚋𝚌 𝚒’𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟺 𝙿𝙼): 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚋𝚌 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚑

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟺 𝙿𝙼): 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎

He doesn’t know what you like. That’s the problem. Three years of friendship and he still can’t predict whether you’re going to want sweet or salty, crunchy or chewy, Korean or foreign.

You change your mind like you change clothes—frequently and without warning.

Last week you declared that you were ‘over’ chocolate, and then yesterday you ate an entire sleeve of his cookies while complaining that they weren’t chocolatey enough.

What does that even mean.

The soju selection stares back at him, a rainbow of artificial flavors designed to mask the taste of alcohol for people who don’t actually want to drink alcohol. Strawberry, peach, blueberry, grape, green grape, yogurt—because apparently regular grape wasn’t specific enough.

He reaches for the strawberry automatically, muscle memory from dozens of these trips, then pauses.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟻 𝙿𝙼): 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚓𝚞

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟻 𝙿𝙼): 𝙶𝙴𝚃. 𝚃𝙷𝙴. 𝙿𝙴𝙰𝙲𝙷. 𝙾𝙽𝙴.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝟿:𝟹𝟻 𝙿𝙼): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟼 𝙿𝙼): 𝚗𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚎𝚎𝚎𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝟿:𝟹𝟼 𝙿𝙼): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟽 𝙿𝙼): 𝚒 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝟿:𝟹𝟽 𝙿𝙼): 𝙸’𝚖 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟽 𝙿𝙼): 𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚒𝚒𝚒𝚒

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟽 𝙿𝙼): 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚜

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟾 𝙿𝙼): 𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚛𝚛𝚛

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟾 𝙿𝙼): 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚢𝚢𝚢𝚢𝚢𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝟿:𝟹𝟾 𝙿𝙼): 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟿 𝙿𝙼): 𝚠𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚔 𝚜𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚎

He does hate you, sometimes. Hates the way you turn simple tasks into negotiations. Hates how you never just say what you want directly, always dancing around it with jokes and dramatics until he has to guess. Hates that you’re probably sprawled across his couch right now, feet tucked under his throw blanket, remote in hand, making yourself at home in his space like you pay rent.

But mostly, he hates that he doesn’t hate it.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝟿:𝟹𝟾 𝙿𝙼): 𝚈𝚎𝚜.

Because if he actually hated all of it, he wouldn’t be standing here at all, on a Wednesday night, buying alcohol for someone who could easily buy her own alcohol at a store closer to her own apartment.

You have a perfectly functional convenience store two blocks from your place.

You have soju in your own fridge—he’s seen it. Strawberry soju, because despite all your protests about trying new flavors, you always end up drinking the same sweet shit that tastes more like candy than alcohol.

So why are you here? Why are you always here?

He grabs four bottles of strawberry soju—enough for you to get tipsy but not drunk enough to throw up in his bathroom again—and one regular soju for himself. The bottles clink against each other in the plastic basket, and he heads toward the snack aisle, already wondering what you’ll accept.

Nothing too crunchy, nothing too soft, nothing too weird.

Which leaves what, exactly?

Chips are too crunchy. Cookies are too sweet. You claim to like nuts but only certain kinds, and only when you’re in the right mood, which is impossible to predict.

His phone buzzes.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟷 𝙿𝙼): 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟷 𝙿𝙼): 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟸 𝙿𝙼): 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟸 𝙿𝙼): 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚔 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟸 𝙿𝙼): 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚜

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟹 𝙿𝙼): 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚜

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟹 𝙿𝙼): 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟹 𝙿𝙼): 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚋𝚌 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎

So chocolate, but not dark chocolate, and not white chocolate, and maybe almonds but maybe not.

Helpful. Very helpful.

He grabs a bar of milk chocolate with almonds and another without, because apparently he’s running a fucking convenience store now, taking custom orders for someone who can’t be bothered to specify her preferences.

The thing is, you do have preferences. Strong ones.

You like your coffee with exactly two sugars, no cream. You like your ramen spicy but not too spicy, with an egg but not a soft-boiled egg. You like movies with subtitles but only if they’re not too depressing, and you like music that’s ‘good for studying’ but never actually study while it’s playing.

You have opinions about everything, detailed and specific opinions, but somehow when it comes to communicating what you actually want, you turn into a mysterious oracle speaking in riddles.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟻 𝙿𝙼): 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚓𝚞

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟻 𝙿𝙼): 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟼 𝙿𝙼): 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚢𝚊𝚛𝚍

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟼 𝙿𝙼): 𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚊𝚔 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝟿:𝟺𝟼 𝙿𝙼): 𝙸’𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟽 𝙿𝙼): 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝟿:𝟺𝟽 𝙿𝙼): 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟽 𝙿𝙼): 𝚒’𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟾 𝙿𝙼): 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟾 𝙿𝙼): 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝟿:𝟺𝟾 𝙿𝙼): 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟿 𝙿𝙼): 𝚒 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟿 𝙿𝙼): 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚙𝚙𝚙𝚙

He pays for everything—soju, chocolate, a bag of chips that aren’t too crunchy, some gummy candy that probably counts as too soft but might satisfy your sugar addiction—and heads back to his apartment.

The walk takes three minutes, during which his phone buzzes twice more with updates on your boredom and increasingly creative ways to spell his name.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟻𝟷 𝙿𝙼): 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚜

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟻𝟸 𝙿𝙼): 𝚖𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚜

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟻𝟸 𝙿𝙼): 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚜

He doesn’t respond to any of them, because encouraging you only makes it worse. You’re like a cat—ignore the behavior and maybe it’ll stop. Reward it with attention and you’re stuck dealing with it forever.

But as he climbs the stairs to his apartment, plastic bag cutting into his fingers, he’s already wondering what drama you’ve chosen, whether you’ll actually try the chocolate with almonds or just pick them out one by one, whether you’ll curl up on the far end of the couch or sprawl across the whole thing like you own it.

Whether you’ll fall asleep there again, and whether he’ll carry you to his bed, and whether you’ll say his name in your sleep like you did last night.

When you were in his bed. Sound asleep, or so he thinks.

When you said his name, soft and breathless, shaping it the way the moon pulls at the sea.

Because it sounded different—different than ever before; intimate, vulnerable, like you were reaching for him across some vast distance.

He pauses outside his door, key halfway to the lock.

Three days. It’s been three days since you asked him to touch you while you sleep, and he still doesn’t know what to tell you.

Doesn’t know if the fact that he’s considering it makes him a good friend or a terrible person.

Doesn’t know if the fact that he’s been thinking about it—really thinking about it, turning it over in his mind during quiet moments—means something he’s not ready to examine.

All he knows is that you’re waiting for him on the other side of this door, probably wearing his clothes, probably having already made yourself comfortable in his space.

And later, when the soju is gone and the drama is over, you’ll fall asleep on his couch or in his bed, and he’ll have to decide whether tonight is the night he stops pretending he didn’t hear what you asked for.

His phone buzzes one more time.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟻𝟻 𝙿𝙼): 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟻𝟻 𝙿𝙼): 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙

He unlocks the door and there you fucking are.

Sprawled across his couch like you’ve been living here for years, wearing one of his old basketball shirts that hangs loose on your frame and a pair of his boxers because you claim they’re more comfortable than actual pajamas. 

The sight stops him short every time—not because it’s unusual, but because it should be.

And it isn’t.

And that right there—that’s his problem.

Any normal person would find it weird that their friend raids their dresser like a personal clothing store, but you’ve been doing this since college. 

Since before college, really. 

Since you were twelve and decided that modesty was optional around him.

He remembers the first time you stripped down to nothing and jumped into some random river during a family camping trip, completely unbothered by his presence. 

Even then, red-faced and trying not to look, he’d wondered if you saw him as a guy at all or just as some sexless extension of yourself. 

The years haven’t answered that question. 

If anything, they’ve made it more complicated.

“Finally,” you say without looking up from the remote, feet tucked under you until he settles down beside you. 

Then immediately, as if nature itself begs of you, you swing your legs over and drop your feet in his lap. He’s used to the weight, warm through his jeans, and he doesn’t move them because this is how you always sit. Has been for years.

He sets the bottles on the coffee table with more care than necessary and offers you the chocolate with his right hand.

You grab it without looking, already absorbed in whatever you’re scrolling through on the screen.

The wrapper crinkles as you tear it open, and he catches a glimpse of the title that appears in bold letters: Sweet dreams.

“What’s this one about?” he asks, settling back against the cushions.

“Looks interesting.” You take a bite of chocolate, remote balanced on your stomach as you navigate to the description. “Says it’s a thriller about a woman who starts having weird dreams about her roommate.”

The synopsis fills the screen in neat white text, and Yoongi skims it with growing unease.

Something about a college student who begins experiencing vivid dreams that feel too real, and a male roommate whose behavior becomes increasingly strange.

The summary is vague enough to be innocent, but there’s something in the phrasing that makes his stomach flutter.

“We could watch something else,” he suggests.

“No, this looks good. Plus it has good ratings.” You’re already hitting play, chocolate forgotten in your lap as the opening credits roll. “I like psychological stuff.”

The film starts innocuously enough—generic college campus shots, establishing the main character as she moves into a shared apartment. She’s pretty in that unremarkable way that’s supposed to make her relatable, unpacking boxes while upbeat music plays. Her roommate is introduced as helpful and charming, carrying her furniture and making jokes about the thin walls.

Yoongi tries to focus on the mundane setup, but his attention keeps drifting to your feet in his lap, the way your toes occasionally flex against his thigh when something on screen makes you react.

You’ve finished half the chocolate already, wrapper scattered on your shirt, completely absorbed in the story.

The film builds slowly, carefully. The girl mentions sleeping poorly, feeling watched, having dreams that feel too vivid to be dreams. 

Normal thriller setup, the kind of thing you’d find on any streaming service. 

But…

There’s something in the way the camera lingers on her sleeping form, something in the way her roommate’s eyes follow her around their shared space.

Twenty minutes in, the first really uncomfortable scene hits.

The girl is asleep in her bed, covers tangled around her legs, and the camera holds on her peaceful face for too long. Then footsteps in the hallway. The sound of a door opening quietly, carefully. The roommate appears in the doorway, and Yoongi’s whole body goes rigid.

“Why are we watching this?” he says quickly, reaching for the remote.

But you’re already out.

Fast asleep with your head tilted back against the couch cushions, mouth slightly open, chocolate wrapper sliding off your chest onto the floor. 

The soju sits untouched on the coffee table, but you never needed alcohol to fall asleep in his apartment. 

You do it like breathing—easily, completely, without any self-consciousness about being vulnerable around him.

Yoongi fumbles for the remote and pauses the film, but the damage is done. 

His eyes flicker to the screen, to the frozen image that captures this whole fuckery really well, honestly.

The roommate’s face half-lit by hallway light, expression unreadable as he watches the sleeping girl. 

The parallel is so obvious it makes his skin crawl.

So stares at you instead. Needs to, really—to look away from what he sees reflected back at him.

Notices the way your breathing has deepened, chest rising and falling in that steady rhythm that means you’re really out, not just resting your eyes. 

This is normal, he tells himself. You falling asleep on his couch is the most normal thing in the world. Has been happening for years. 

The fact that you’re wearing his clothes, the fact that you trust him enough to be unconscious and defenseless in his space—none of this is new.

What’s new is the way his pulse kicks up when he looks at you like this. 

The way his brain immediately jumps to what you asked him three days ago, the conversation that’s been replaying in his head every quiet moment since.

«If you ever do it, I don’t want to know.»

He could touch you right now. Could slide his hand up your calf, test the softness of your skin, see if you’d react in your sleep. 

You’d never know. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? The not knowing.

He reaches for his own soju instead, twisting off the cap with more force than necessary.

It burns.

It burns all the way down, nothing like the sweet shit you prefer, and for a second he’s thankful for that.

Thankful for the distraction, thankful for something to yank him back from doing something so stupid he’d regret it for years.

His eyes skitter back to the screen, to the roommate frozen in the doorway.

He has to take another sip and try not to think about how easy it would be to be that person.

How easy it would be to want what he shouldn’t want.

Your foot twitches against his leg, some unconscious movement in sleep, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. 

But you don’t wake up. Just settle deeper into the couch cushions, completely trusting, completely unaware of the way he’s looking at you.

The way he shouldn’t be looking at you.

His brain works overtime trying to convince himself that what he’s feeling right now is anything other than what it obviously is.

Three days since you asked him.

Three days of trying not to think about it.

And now this—you unconscious in his apartment, wearing his clothes, while some fucked-up movie serves up exactly the wrong kind of inspiration.

He finishes the soju in three long swallows and reaches for another bottle.

This is so fucked.

But you said yes, right?

You asked him. Specifically asked him to touch you while you sleep, laid out the terms like some kind of fucked-up contract.

You don’t want to know, so he could do it and you’d never know and you’d stay best friends like always.

God, that’s fucked up.

That’s so completely fucked up that he can’t believe either of you said it out loud, let alone that he’s sitting here considering it.

What kind of person asks their best friend to molest them in their sleep?

What kind of person actually thinks about saying yes?

What kind of person lets the possibility fester and tear a groove in their brain until it’s the only thing they can focus on?

He glances at you again, taking in your sleeping form.

You’ve shifted since you dozed off, legs relaxing, thighs parting slightly in that unconscious way people do when they’re deeply asleep. The boxers—his boxers—sit on you like they were tailored for your body, the loose cotton somehow managing to hug your curves in all the wrong places.

Or the right places, depending on how he looks at it.

When did he start thinking about his best friend like that?

When did he start noticing that you have really nice thighs?

Because you do.

God, you do.

The soft curve where they meet your hips, the way the fabric rides up just enough to show more skin than it should.

Maybe you know that. Maybe that’s exactly why you do this—wearing his clothes, sprawling across his furniture, falling asleep in his space like you’re trying to test his self-control.

Maybe you’ve got him exactly where you wanted.

His hand moves without his permission, settling on your right thigh just above your knee. The skin is soft there, warm from sleep and the heat of his apartment. Softer than he expected, though he’s never let himself think about what your skin might feel like before. Never let himself notice the way you always seem to be touching him—feet in his lap, shoulder bumping his, hand on his arm when you’re trying to make a point.

You make a soft noise in your sleep, something between a sigh and a hum, and he almost yanks his hand away. Almost bolts from the couch entirely, because this is insane. This is exactly the kind of thing that ruins friendships, that turns normal people into the kind of creeps who get arrested for shit like this.

But you don’t wake up.

You just settle deeper into sleep, completely trusting, completely unaware that your best friend is sitting here with his hand on your bare thigh having the worst thoughts of his entire life.

He should move his hand. Should wake you up and tell you to go sleep in your own apartment, in your own bed, wearing your own clothes. Should pretend this conversation never happened and that he’s not the kind of person who would even consider what you asked him to consider.

Instead, he lets his thumb brush against your skin, just once. Just to see.

You don’t react except to make that soft sound again, and something hot and shameful coils in his stomach.

Because this is what you wanted, isn’t it? This exact scenario.

You sound asleep while he touches you however he wants, all with your explicit permission.

Permission that somehow makes it worse instead of better.

He squeezes slightly, testing the give of your flesh under his palm, and you shift in your sleep but still don’t rise.

Your head tilts further back against the couch cushions, and his eyes track the movement like he’s studying you. Really studying you, in a way he’s never let himself before.

The way his shirt hangs loose on your frame, neckline dipping low enough to show the curve of your collarbone.

The way your lips part slightly when you breathe deeply.

The way those fucking boxers sit on your hips like they were made for you instead of him.

This is so fucked.

His body, clearly, doesn’t give a single shit about that.

Or his hand, for that matter.

Because when did he start palming himself through his jeans?

When did the sick twist in his stomach turn into something else entirely, something hot and urgent that makes his breath catch?

He doesn’t remember making the decision to touch himself, but there his hand is, pressing against the growing hardness that apparently has no moral compass whatsoever.

But you said you wanted to try somnophilia. Said you trusted him. Said you didn’t want to know what he did or didn’t do while you slept.

So technically, this counts. This is him doing what you asked, even if he’s too much of a coward to actually touch you the way you probably meant.

Even if he’s sitting here jerking himself off instead of having the balls to slip his hand under the waistband of those criminal boxers and find out what you feel like.

The problem isn’t the consent.

Because you asked for this. Explicitly. Told him to touch you however he wanted while you slept, told him you didn’t want to know, told him you trusted him completely.

The consent isn’t the issue here.

The issue is that you’re his best friend, and he’s sitting here palming himself while staring at your unconscious body like some kind of creep.

The issue is that this feels morally wrong even when it technically isn’t.

The issue is that he’s crossing a line that exists only in his head, but feels as real and solid as a brick wall.

But you wanted this.

You literally asked him to do this.

And maybe that gives him some sense of clarity, or just reckless boldness, but suddenly he’s unzipping his jeans with his free hand, movements careful and quiet so he doesn’t wake you. His cock springs free, already hard and leaking, and the relief of not being constrained by denim makes him bite back a groan.

This is so fucked up he can’t even process it, but he can’t stop either.

Can’t stop looking at you, can’t stop thinking about what you asked him to do.

Can’t stop wondering what would happen if he actually did it.

His hand moves higher on your thigh, testing, and you make that soft sound again. The one that goes straight to his dick and makes him stroke himself for real now, because if you’re making sounds like that just from him touching your leg, what would you sound like if he really touched you?

If he slipped his fingers under the loose cotton and found out how you feel when you’re not awake to guard your reactions?

But he’s too chicken. Too fucking scared of what it would mean to actually cross that line, even with your permission. Even with your explicit request.

So instead he sits there giving himself a couple pulls while staring at your sleeping form, telling himself this is what you wanted. This is him exploring your fantasy, even if he’s doing it like a coward. Even if he’s too afraid to actually give you what you asked for.

But he’s touching your thigh, isn’t he? Close enough, really. It should count.

It doesn’t feel like it counts, though.

It feels like he’s just a pervert who’s too scared to commit to being the kind of pervert you actually want.

His thumb brushes higher on your thigh, almost to the hem of the boxers, and you wiggle again.

He has to bite his lip to keep from making a sound.

Because you’re right there. Right fucking there, wearing his clothes, trusting him completely, and all he has to do is move his hand a few inches and he could find out what you feel like.

But he doesn’t.

Because he’s a coward who jerks off to his sleeping best friend instead of actually doing what she asked him to do.

Because even with permission, even with your explicit consent, he’s too much of a pussy to take what you offered.

The irony would be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic.

He strokes himself with more intent now, eyes fixed on the curve of your thigh, on the way your chest rises and falls, on the peaceful expression on your face that means you have no idea what he’s doing two feet away from you.

This is so fucked.

And he’s going to cum anyway.

His free hand moves to the hem of the boxers, fingers trembling slightly as he pushes the fabric up.

Just to see. Just to look.

You said he could touch you however he wanted, which means he can look, right? Looking isn’t even touching.

The sight that greets him makes him bite his lip hard enough to taste copper.

The outline of your cunt is visible through the thin cotton, lips pressing against the fabric in a way that makes his mouth go dry. The material clings obscenely, showing him the shape of you in perfect detail.

The slit, the way your lips part slightly, the way the fabric molds to every fucking groove.

Fuck.

He strokes himself harder, grip tight around his cock as he drinks in the sight of the space between your legs.

He’s going to cum. Soon. And the thought of leaving evidence of what he’s done while you sleep over those pretty thighs makes him stroke faster. Harder.

His thumb accidentally brushes higher, and you make that soft sound again.

It pushes him over the edge.

He comes hard, cock pulsing in his hand as he paints your thighs with thick ropes of cum.

It’s obscene and perfect and so fucked up he can’t process it.

For a moment, he just stares. Drinks it in.

The way his cum looks against your skin, the way it drips down the curve of your thigh. The way you look completely debauched even though you’re still fast asleep.

Then the post-orgasm clarity hits.

Oh fuck.

Oh shit.

What the fuck.

Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck.

He shoves himself back into his jeans and bolts for the kitchen, movements careful and quiet despite the panic clawing at his chest. Grabs paper towels from the counter and dampens them with warm water, hands shaking as he tries to process what he just did.

He came on you.

On his sleeping best friend.

While you were unconscious and trusting and completely unaware.

What kind of sick fuck jerks off on his best friend’s thighs while she sleeps?

But you asked him.

But it’s still fucked up.

But you requested this.

But it’s still fucked up.

But you gave explicit, enthusiastic consent.

But it’s still fucked up.

His brain only seems to circle back to the same fucking conclusion.

He creeps back to the couch, paper towels in hand, and carefully cleans you up. The cum comes off easily, leaving no trace except the memory burned into his brain. You don’t wake up, don’t even stir as he gently wipes your skin clean and adjusts the boxers back into place.

When he’s done, he sits back and stares at you.

You look exactly the same as you did before—peaceful, trusting, completely unaware that anything happened. Like he didn’t just cross a line he can never uncross.

Like he didn’t just discover something about himself that he’s not sure he wants to know.

The worst part isn’t that he did it.

The worst part is that the gnawing, baleful feeling crawling at his chest doesn’t overpower the fact that he liked it.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

©️ kikiskook aka @jungkoode 2025.

do not translate. do not repost.

TL: @billy-jeans23 @hoelychildofgod @kam9404 @myantcha @yoongiiuu93 @gojomyoneandonly @tsibba01 @jazzluvrr @questioninglifeismypurpose @withmuchluv-tannie @lepples2015 @madiilolz @rntcdsc @dwahaaus @billy-jeans23 @kittycat1dsn @amarawayne @radicaltrashwrites @redcherrytea @dprlive230 @hanniescherries @mar-lo-pap @queenbloody @littlestarstinyseven @yunamay1248 @supernoonanyc @ddaengielle @xmarrx @stydixmxrtinski @shadowyjellyfishfest @ilikekpop-c @xxunholyqueenxx @yuyu0y11 @inconsistentpieceofmess @yourlittleslutcums @sadbitchenergy @vespersbells @naesarang07 @iam-wh0 @arrctica @eclipsedfairy @starsyoongi @victorialoce @icantsleephomesick @jjklvrapobangpo7 @jazzluvrr @svnk1ssd @tremblementdesfleurs @teasykes

[kikiskook]

@meigalaxy @viahjgd @mindurbuzznezz @occeanawave @mellyyyyyyx @ot7girl4l @mintyunho @lilbny-blog @yoongiminnie444 @mapleleafsamurai @itssluthourhere @03galaxywriter03 @inconsistentpieceofmess @joonie1213 @dropdeadbec @fancypeacepersona

[kikiskook]

MOON DREAMS

02. 초승 | CHOSEUNG (waxing crescent)

It's been three days since you asked. Three days of him pretending he didn't hear the question. Then you show up with soju and terrible movie choices, and you fall asleep on his couch wearing his boxers like you own them. Like you own him. His hand settles on your thigh. Just to see. Just to test if this is real or if he's losing his mind. You don't wake up. That's the problem. You don't wake up, and his hand doesn't stop moving.

☾ masterlist | moon dreams masterpost

rating ; 18+ | explicit

genre ; bsf to lovers, somnophilia kink, smut, angst, porn with plot

word count ; 4.3k

warnings ; consensual somnophilia (first instance), non-penetrative sexual touching, heavy petting while unconscious, internal moral conflict, guilt, sexual content, male masturbation, jerking off whilst your bsf sleeps, realization your bsf has nice thighs, cum on thighs, panic

☁️ rundown ; You've always shared everything with your best friend—beds, clothes, sleep, silence. But one day, you offer him something else: yourself. Unconscious. "Do whatever you want," you say. "Just don't tell me." At first, he's stunned. He's not like that. Not a pervert. Not a creep. But when you fall asleep on his couch in nothing but his shirt, thighs bare, lips parted—he starts thinking. What if you meant it? What if he tried… just once?

a/n ; Hi. Back on my bullshit. Yup. Chapter 1 was all talk—consent negotiation, ethical hand-wringing, Yoongi having a full-blown moral crisis in his own kitchen. Chapter 2? Chapter 2 is where the doing starts. And let me tell you, writing this chapter felt like watching someone stand at the edge of a pool for twenty minutes, dipping one toe in, pulling it back out, staring at the water like it personally offended them—and then finally jumping in. Except the pool is his best friend's thigh and the water is his rapidly deteriorating self-control. (Look, the metaphor falls apart if you think about it too hard. Just go with it.) Sooo about MOOND!Yoongi. He's not impulsive. He doesn't just do things. He thinks, he spirals, he rationalizes, he convinces himself he's not going to do the thing—and then he does it anyway, but only after he's tortured himself about it for three days straight. That's the psychology I'm working with here. This is not a man who's going to just dive headfirst into somnophilia the second he gets permission. That would be unrealistic and, frankly, out of character. So yeah, the first touch is agonizing for him, and you’re gonna suffer through it with him. It's ‘what the fuck am I doing’ and ‘this is insane’ and ‘she's going to wake up and realize I'm a pervert and never speak to me again.’ But then she doesn't wake up. And that's when things shift. Because somnophilia as a kink is about the permission. The safety of it. The trust. Now—while I’ve got you by the collar—lemme just slide in a little note about a writing choice I made here that you might clock as weird. Walk with me. No, not the nickname—I know how I am about those and I’m not apologizing, ever, I’ll die on that hill with a wine glass in hand. It’s about using ‘You:’ for Yoongi’s contact in the messages. No, that wasn’t a mistake. It’s not lazy formatting. I didn’t black out and forget which POV we were in. That was intentional. Y’all know I’m a stickler for limited POV. It’s always tight to the character’s perspective, always filtered through their perceptions and mental framework, even if it’s not first person. So when he opens his phone and sees a message? It’s gonna say ‘You:’ because he’s reading it. That’s his POV. That’s how he sees the chat. So yeah, even if we’re reading in third, the phone isn’t gonna say ‘Yoongi: hey’ like it’s floating in some neutral observer void. It’s his head. His phone. His mental space. ‘You:’ is what he sees, and so that’s what you see. That’s why it matters. It’s funny and I wanted to address it because I thought about it for quiiiite a while. Anyway, if you thought it was a weird flex… you’re absolutely right. I’m out here being annoying on purpose. I’m a menace and I believe in artistic consistency. Let me live.

(Also yes, the soju and terrible movie night setup is self-indulgent domestic fluff because I'm weak for that shit. Sue me. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

Enjoy, you beautiful perverts. See you in Chapter 3. ♡

How did his life become a series of text message negotiations over flavored alcohol for someone who doesn’t even live here?

Yoongi stares at his phone screen, scrolling through an hour’s worth of messages that started with a simple ‘coming over’ and devolved into you demanding he curate your drinking experience like some kind of personal sommelier.

He stares at the colorful soju bottles, which somehow manage to look washed out in the sickly yellow glow the fluorescent lights of the convenience store provide.

He’s standing in the alcohol aisle at nine-thirty on a Wednesday night, which should be embarrassing, but mostly he’s just tired.

Tired of making decisions for someone who claims to be an adult but texts like a sugar-addicted teenager.

His phone buzzes again.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟸 𝙿𝙼): 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟸 𝙿𝙼): 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟸 𝙿𝙼): 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝟿:𝟹𝟹 𝙿𝙼): 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚗𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚜.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟹 𝙿𝙼): 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚎

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟺 𝙿𝙼): 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚢 𝚋𝚌 𝚒’𝚖 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟺 𝙿𝙼): 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚏𝚝 𝚋𝚌 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚞𝚜𝚑

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟺 𝙿𝙼): 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎

He doesn’t know what you like. That’s the problem. A decade of friendship and he still can’t predict whether you’re going to want sweet or salty, crunchy or chewy, Korean or foreign.

You change your mind like you change clothes—frequently and without warning.

Last week you declared that you were ‘over’ chocolate, and then yesterday you ate an entire sleeve of his cookies while complaining that they weren’t chocolatey enough.

What does that even mean.

The soju selection stares back at him, a rainbow of artificial flavors designed to mask the taste of alcohol for people who don’t actually want to drink alcohol. Strawberry, peach, blueberry, grape, green grape, yogurt—because apparently regular grape wasn’t specific enough.

He reaches for the strawberry automatically, muscle memory from dozens of these trips, then pauses.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟻 𝙿𝙼): 𝚊𝚕𝚜𝚘 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚘𝚓𝚞

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟻 𝙿𝙼): 𝙶𝙴𝚃. 𝚃𝙷𝙴. 𝙿𝙴𝙰𝙲𝙷. 𝙾𝙽𝙴.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝟿:𝟹𝟻 𝙿𝙼): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟼 𝙿𝙼): 𝚗𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚒 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑 𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚎𝚎𝚎𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝟿:𝟹𝟼 𝙿𝙼): 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚛𝚢 𝚒𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚘 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚞𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟽 𝙿𝙼): 𝚒 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝟿:𝟹𝟽 𝙿𝙼): 𝙸’𝚖 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚗𝚎.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟽 𝙿𝙼): 𝚗𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚒𝚒𝚒𝚒𝚒

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟽 𝙿𝙼): 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚜

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟾 𝙿𝙼): 𝚢𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚛𝚛𝚛

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟾 𝙿𝙼): 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚢𝚢𝚢𝚢𝚢𝚢

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝟿:𝟹𝟾 𝙿𝙼): 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟹𝟿 𝙿𝙼): 𝚠𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚔 𝚜𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚖𝚎

He does hate you, sometimes. Hates the way you turn simple tasks into negotiations. Hates how you never just say what you want directly, always dancing around it with jokes and dramatics until he has to guess. Hates that you’re probably sprawled across his couch right now, feet tucked under his throw blanket, remote in hand, making yourself at home in his space like you pay rent.

But mostly, he hates that he doesn’t hate it.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝟿:𝟹𝟾 𝙿𝙼): 𝚈𝚎𝚜.

Because if he actually hated all of it, he wouldn’t be standing here at all, on a Wednesday night, buying alcohol for someone who could easily buy her own alcohol at a store closer to her own apartment.

You have a perfectly functional convenience store two blocks from your place.

You have soju in your own fridge—he’s seen it. Strawberry soju, because despite all your protests about trying new flavors, you always end up drinking the same sweet shit that tastes more like candy than alcohol.

So why are you here? Why are you always here?

He grabs four bottles of strawberry soju—enough for you to get tipsy but not drunk enough to throw up in his bathroom again—and one regular soju for himself. The bottles clink against each other in the plastic basket, and he heads toward the snack aisle, already wondering what you’ll accept.

Nothing too crunchy, nothing too soft, nothing too weird.

Which leaves what, exactly?

Chips are too crunchy. Cookies are too sweet. You claim to like nuts but only certain kinds, and only when you’re in the right mood, which is impossible to predict.

His phone buzzes.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟷 𝙿𝙼): 𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟷 𝙿𝙼): 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚍

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟸 𝙿𝙼): 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟸 𝙿𝙼): 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚔 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟸 𝙿𝙼): 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚜

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟹 𝙿𝙼): 𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚜

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟹 𝙿𝙼): 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟹 𝙿𝙼): 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚋𝚌 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎

So chocolate, but not dark chocolate, and not white chocolate, and maybe almonds but maybe not.

Helpful. Very helpful.

He grabs a bar of milk chocolate with almonds and another without, because apparently he’s running a fucking convenience store now, taking custom orders for someone who can’t be bothered to specify her preferences.

The thing is, you do have preferences. Strong ones.

You like your coffee with exactly two sugars, no cream. You like your ramen spicy but not too spicy, with an egg but not a soft-boiled egg. You like movies with subtitles but only if they’re not too depressing, and you like music that’s ‘good for studying’ but never actually study while it’s playing.

You have opinions about everything, detailed and specific opinions, but somehow when it comes to communicating what you actually want, you turn into a mysterious oracle speaking in riddles.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟻 𝙿𝙼): 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜 𝚒𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚞𝚢 𝚜𝚘𝚓𝚞

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟻 𝙿𝙼): 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟼 𝙿𝙼): 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚢𝚊𝚛𝚍

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟼 𝙿𝙼): 𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚊𝚔 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝟿:𝟺𝟼 𝙿𝙼): 𝙸’𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟽 𝙿𝙼): 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝟿:𝟺𝟽 𝙿𝙼): 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚟𝚎.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟽 𝙿𝙼): 𝚒’𝚖 𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟾 𝙿𝙼): 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚙𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟾 𝙿𝙼): 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎

𝐘𝐨𝐮 (𝟿:𝟺𝟾 𝙿𝙼): 𝚈𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚕𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟿 𝙿𝙼): 𝚒 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟺𝟿 𝙿𝙼): 𝚑𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚙𝚙𝚙𝚙

He pays for everything—soju, chocolate, a bag of chips that aren’t too crunchy, some gummy candy that probably counts as too soft but might satisfy your sugar addiction—and heads back to his apartment.

The walk takes three minutes, during which his phone buzzes twice more with updates on your boredom and increasingly creative ways to spell his name.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟻𝟷 𝙿𝙼): 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚜

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟻𝟸 𝙿𝙼): 𝚖𝚒𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎𝚜

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟻𝟸 𝙿𝙼): 𝚢𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚜

He doesn’t respond to any of them, because encouraging you only makes it worse. You’re like a cat—ignore the behavior and maybe it’ll stop. Reward it with attention and you’re stuck dealing with it forever.

But as he climbs the stairs to his apartment, plastic bag cutting into his fingers, he’s already wondering what drama you’ve chosen, whether you’ll actually try the chocolate with almonds or just pick them out one by one, whether you’ll curl up on the far end of the couch or sprawl across the whole thing like you own it.

Whether you’ll fall asleep there again, and whether he’ll carry you to his bed, and whether you’ll say his name in your sleep like you did last night.

When you were in his bed. Sound asleep, or so he thinks.

When you said his name, soft and breathless, shaping it the way the moon pulls at the sea.

Because it sounded different—different than ever before; intimate, vulnerable, like you were reaching for him across some vast distance.

He pauses outside his door, key halfway to the lock.

Three days. It’s been three days since you asked him to touch you while you sleep, and he still doesn’t know what to tell you.

Doesn’t know if the fact that he’s considering it makes him a good friend or a terrible person.

Doesn’t know if the fact that he’s been thinking about it—really thinking about it, turning it over in his mind during quiet moments—means something he’s not ready to examine.

All he knows is that you’re waiting for him on the other side of this door, probably wearing his clothes, probably having already made yourself comfortable in his space.

And later, when the soju is gone and the drama is over, you’ll fall asleep on his couch or in his bed, and he’ll have to decide whether tonight is the night he stops pretending he didn’t hear what you asked for.

His phone buzzes one more time.

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟻𝟻 𝙿𝙼): 𝚒 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚘𝚛

𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐰𝐨𝐥 🌕 (𝟿:𝟻𝟻 𝙿𝙼): 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚙

He unlocks the door and there you fucking are.

Sprawled across his couch like you’ve been living here for years, wearing one of his old basketball shirts that hangs loose on your frame and a pair of his boxers because you claim they’re more comfortable than actual pajamas. 

The sight stops him short every time—not because it’s unusual, but because it should be.

And it isn’t.

And that right there—that’s his problem.

Any normal person would find it weird that their friend raids their dresser like a personal clothing store, but you’ve been doing this since college. 

Since before college, really. 

Since you were twelve and decided that modesty was optional around him.

He remembers the first time you stripped down to nothing and jumped into some random river during a family camping trip, completely unbothered by his presence. 

Even then, red-faced and trying not to look, he’d wondered if you saw him as a guy at all or just as some sexless extension of yourself. 

The years haven’t answered that question. 

If anything, they’ve made it more complicated.

“Finally,” you say without looking up from the remote, feet tucked under you until he settles down beside you. 

Then immediately, as if nature itself begs of you, you swing your legs over and drop your feet in his lap. He’s used to the weight, warm through his jeans, and he doesn’t move them because this is how you always sit. Has been for years.

He sets the bottles on the coffee table with more care than necessary and offers you the chocolate with his right hand.

You grab it without looking, already absorbed in whatever you’re scrolling through on the screen.

The wrapper crinkles as you tear it open, and he catches a glimpse of the title that appears in bold letters: Sweet dreams.

“What’s this one about?” he asks, settling back against the cushions.

“Looks interesting.” You take a bite of chocolate, remote balanced on your stomach as you navigate to the description. “Says it’s a thriller about a woman who starts having weird dreams about her roommate.”

The synopsis fills the screen in neat white text, and Yoongi skims it with growing unease.

Something about a college student who begins experiencing vivid dreams that feel too real, and a male roommate whose behavior becomes increasingly strange.

The summary is vague enough to be innocent, but there’s something in the phrasing that makes his stomach flutter.

“We could watch something else,” he suggests.

“No, this looks good. Plus it has good ratings.” You’re already hitting play, chocolate forgotten in your lap as the opening credits roll. “I like psychological stuff.”

The film starts innocuously enough—generic college campus shots, establishing the main character as she moves into a shared apartment. She’s pretty in that unremarkable way that’s supposed to make her relatable, unpacking boxes while upbeat music plays. Her roommate is introduced as helpful and charming, carrying her furniture and making jokes about the thin walls.

Yoongi tries to focus on the mundane setup, but his attention keeps drifting to your feet in his lap, the way your toes occasionally flex against his thigh when something on screen makes you react.

You’ve finished half the chocolate already, wrapper scattered on your shirt, completely absorbed in the story.

The film builds slowly, carefully. The girl mentions sleeping poorly, feeling watched, having dreams that feel too vivid to be dreams. 

Normal thriller setup, the kind of thing you’d find on any streaming service. 

But…

There’s something in the way the camera lingers on her sleeping form, something in the way her roommate’s eyes follow her around their shared space.

Twenty minutes in, the first really uncomfortable scene hits.

The girl is asleep in her bed, covers tangled around her legs, and the camera holds on her peaceful face for too long. Then footsteps in the hallway. The sound of a door opening quietly, carefully. The roommate appears in the doorway, and Yoongi’s whole body goes rigid.

“Why are we watching this?” he says quickly, reaching for the remote.

But you’re already out.

Fast asleep with your head tilted back against the couch cushions, mouth slightly open, chocolate wrapper sliding off your chest onto the floor. 

The soju sits untouched on the coffee table, but you never needed alcohol to fall asleep in his apartment. 

You do it like breathing—easily, completely, without any self-consciousness about being vulnerable around him.

Yoongi fumbles for the remote and pauses the film, but the damage is done. 

His eyes flicker to the screen, to the frozen image that captures this whole fuckery really well, honestly.

The roommate’s face half-lit by hallway light, expression unreadable as he watches the sleeping girl. 

The parallel is so obvious it makes his skin crawl.

So stares at you instead. Needs to, really—to look away from what he sees reflected back at him.

Notices the way your breathing has deepened, chest rising and falling in that steady rhythm that means you’re really out, not just resting your eyes. 

This is normal, he tells himself. You falling asleep on his couch is the most normal thing in the world. Has been happening for years. 

The fact that you’re wearing his clothes, the fact that you trust him enough to be unconscious and defenseless in his space—none of this is new.

What’s new is the way his pulse kicks up when he looks at you like this. 

The way his brain immediately jumps to what you asked him three days ago, the conversation that’s been replaying in his head every quiet moment since.

«If you ever do it, I don’t want to know.»

He could touch you right now. Could slide his hand up your calf, test the softness of your skin, see if you’d react in your sleep. 

You’d never know. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? The not knowing.

He reaches for his own soju instead, twisting off the cap with more force than necessary.

It burns.

It burns all the way down, nothing like the sweet shit you prefer, and for a second he’s thankful for that.

Thankful for the distraction, thankful for something to yank him back from doing something so stupid he’d regret it for years.

His eyes skitter back to the screen, to the roommate frozen in the doorway.

He has to take another sip and try not to think about how easy it would be to be that person.

How easy it would be to want what he shouldn’t want.

Your foot twitches against his leg, some unconscious movement in sleep, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. 

But you don’t wake up. Just settle deeper into the couch cushions, completely trusting, completely unaware of the way he’s looking at you.

The way he shouldn’t be looking at you.

His brain works overtime trying to convince himself that what he’s feeling right now is anything other than what it obviously is.

Three days since you asked him.

Three days of trying not to think about it.

And now this—you unconscious in his apartment, wearing his clothes, while some fucked-up movie serves up exactly the wrong kind of inspiration.

He finishes the soju in three long swallows and reaches for another bottle.

This is so fucked.

But you said yes, right?

You asked him. Specifically asked him to touch you while you sleep, laid out the terms like some kind of fucked-up contract.

You don’t want to know, so he could do it and you’d never know and you’d stay best friends like always.

God, that’s fucked up.

That’s so completely fucked up that he can’t believe either of you said it out loud, let alone that he’s sitting here considering it.

What kind of person asks their best friend to molest them in their sleep?

What kind of person actually thinks about saying yes?

What kind of person lets the possibility fester and tear a groove in their brain until it’s the only thing they can focus on?

He glances at you again, taking in your sleeping form.

You’ve shifted since you dozed off, legs relaxing, thighs parting slightly in that unconscious way people do when they’re deeply asleep. The boxers—his boxers—sit on you like they were tailored for your body, the loose cotton somehow managing to hug your curves in all the wrong places.

Or the right places, depending on how he looks at it.

When did he start thinking about his best friend like that?

When did he start noticing that you have really nice thighs?

Because you do.

God, you do.

The soft curve where they meet your hips, the way the fabric rides up just enough to show more skin than it should.

Maybe you know that. Maybe that’s exactly why you do this—wearing his clothes, sprawling across his furniture, falling asleep in his space like you’re trying to test his self-control.

Maybe you’ve got him exactly where you wanted.

His hand moves without his permission, settling on your right thigh just above your knee. The skin is soft there, warm from sleep and the heat of his apartment. Softer than he expected, though he’s never let himself think about what your skin might feel like before. Never let himself notice the way you always seem to be touching him—feet in his lap, shoulder bumping his, hand on his arm when you’re trying to make a point.

You make a soft noise in your sleep, something between a sigh and a hum, and he almost yanks his hand away. Almost bolts from the couch entirely, because this is insane. This is exactly the kind of thing that ruins friendships, that turns normal people into the kind of creeps who get arrested for shit like this.

But you don’t wake up.

You just settle deeper into sleep, completely trusting, completely unaware that your best friend is sitting here with his hand on your bare thigh having the worst thoughts of his entire life.

He should move his hand. Should wake you up and tell you to go sleep in your own apartment, in your own bed, wearing your own clothes. Should pretend this conversation never happened and that he’s not the kind of person who would even consider what you asked him to consider.

Instead, he lets his thumb brush against your skin, just once. Just to see.

You don’t react except to make that soft sound again, and something hot and shameful coils in his stomach.

Because this is what you wanted, isn’t it? This exact scenario.

You sound asleep while he touches you however he wants, all with your explicit permission.

Permission that somehow makes it worse instead of better.

He squeezes slightly, testing the give of your flesh under his palm, and you shift in your sleep but still don’t rise.

Your head tilts further back against the couch cushions, and his eyes track the movement like he’s studying you. Really studying you, in a way he’s never let himself before.

The way his shirt hangs loose on your frame, neckline dipping low enough to show the curve of your collarbone.

The way your lips part slightly when you breathe deeply.

The way those fucking boxers sit on your hips like they were made for you instead of him.

This is so fucked.

His body, clearly, doesn’t give a single shit about that.

Or his hand, for that matter.

Because when did he start palming himself through his jeans?

When did the sick twist in his stomach turn into something else entirely, something hot and urgent that makes his breath catch?

He doesn’t remember making the decision to touch himself, but there his hand is, pressing against the growing hardness that apparently has no moral compass whatsoever.

But you said you wanted to try somnophilia. Said you trusted him. Said you didn’t want to know what he did or didn’t do while you slept.

So technically, this counts. This is him doing what you asked, even if he’s too much of a coward to actually touch you the way you probably meant.

Even if he’s sitting here jerking himself off instead of having the balls to slip his hand under the waistband of those criminal boxers and find out what you feel like.

The problem isn’t the consent.

Because you asked for this. Explicitly. Told him to touch you however he wanted while you slept, told him you didn’t want to know, told him you trusted him completely.

The consent isn’t the issue here.

The issue is that you’re his best friend, and he’s sitting here palming himself while staring at your unconscious body like some kind of creep.

The issue is that this feels morally wrong even when it technically isn’t.

The issue is that he’s crossing a line that exists only in his head, but feels as real and solid as a brick wall.

But you wanted this.

You literally asked him to do this.

And maybe that gives him some sense of clarity, or just reckless boldness, but suddenly he’s unzipping his jeans with his free hand, movements careful and quiet so he doesn’t wake you. His cock springs free, already hard and leaking, and the relief of not being constrained by denim makes him bite back a groan.

This is so fucked up he can’t even process it, but he can’t stop either.

Can’t stop looking at you, can’t stop thinking about what you asked him to do.

Can’t stop wondering what would happen if he actually did it.

His hand moves higher on your thigh, testing, and you make that soft sound again. The one that goes straight to his dick and makes him stroke himself for real now, because if you’re making sounds like that just from him touching your leg, what would you sound like if he really touched you?

If he slipped his fingers under the loose cotton and found out how you feel when you’re not awake to guard your reactions?

But he’s too chicken. Too fucking scared of what it would mean to actually cross that line, even with your permission. Even with your explicit request.

So instead he sits there giving himself a couple pulls while staring at your sleeping form, telling himself this is what you wanted. This is him exploring your fantasy, even if he’s doing it like a coward. Even if he’s too afraid to actually give you what you asked for.

But he’s touching your thigh, isn’t he? Close enough, really. It should count.

It doesn’t feel like it counts, though.

It feels like he’s just a pervert who’s too scared to commit to being the kind of pervert you actually want.

His thumb brushes higher on your thigh, almost to the hem of the boxers, and you wiggle again.

He has to bite his lip to keep from making a sound.

Because you’re right there. Right fucking there, wearing his clothes, trusting him completely, and all he has to do is move his hand a few inches and he could find out what you feel like.

But he doesn’t.

Because he’s a coward who jerks off to his sleeping best friend instead of actually doing what she asked him to do.

Because even with permission, even with your explicit consent, he’s too much of a pussy to take what you offered.

The irony would be funny if it wasn’t so pathetic.

He strokes himself with more intent now, eyes fixed on the curve of your thigh, on the way your chest rises and falls, on the peaceful expression on your face that means you have no idea what he’s doing two feet away from you.

This is so fucked.

And he’s going to cum anyway.

His free hand moves to the hem of the boxers, fingers trembling slightly as he pushes the fabric up.

Just to see. Just to look.

You said he could touch you however he wanted, which means he can look, right? Looking isn’t even touching.

The sight that greets him makes him bite his lip hard enough to taste copper.

The outline of your cunt is visible through the thin cotton, lips pressing against the fabric in a way that makes his mouth go dry. The material clings obscenely, showing him the shape of you in perfect detail.

The slit, the way your lips part slightly, the way the fabric molds to every fucking groove.

Fuck.

He strokes himself harder, grip tight around his cock as he drinks in the sight of the space between your legs.

He’s going to cum. Soon. And the thought of leaving evidence of what he’s done while you sleep over those pretty thighs makes him stroke faster. Harder.

His thumb accidentally brushes higher, and you make that soft sound again.

It pushes him over the edge.

He comes hard, cock pulsing in his hand as he paints your thighs with thick ropes of cum.

It’s obscene and perfect and so fucked up he can’t process it.

For a moment, he just stares. Drinks it in.

The way his cum looks against your skin, the way it drips down the curve of your thigh. The way you look completely debauched even though you’re still fast asleep.

Then the post-orgasm clarity hits.

Oh fuck.

Oh shit.

What the fuck.

Whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck.

He shoves himself back into his jeans and bolts for the kitchen, movements careful and quiet despite the panic clawing at his chest. Grabs paper towels from the counter and dampens them with warm water, hands shaking as he tries to process what he just did.

He came on you.

On his sleeping best friend.

While you were unconscious and trusting and completely unaware.

What kind of sick fuck jerks off on his best friend’s thighs while she sleeps?

But you asked him.

But it’s still fucked up.

But you requested this.

But it’s still fucked up.

But you gave explicit, enthusiastic consent.

But it’s still fucked up.

His brain only seems to circle back to the same fucking conclusion.

He creeps back to the couch, paper towels in hand, and carefully cleans you up. The cum comes off easily, leaving no trace except the memory burned into his brain. You don’t wake up, don’t even stir as he gently wipes your skin clean and adjusts the boxers back into place.

When he’s done, he sits back and stares at you.

You look exactly the same as you did before—peaceful, trusting, completely unaware that anything happened. Like he didn’t just cross a line he can never uncross.

Like he didn’t just discover something about himself that he’s not sure he wants to know.

The worst part isn’t that he did it.

The worst part is that the gnawing, baleful feeling crawling at his chest doesn’t overpower the fact that he liked it.

What the fuck is wrong with him?

©️ kikiskook aka @jungkoode 2025.

do not translate. do not repost.

TL: @billy-jeans23 @hoelychildofgod @kam9404 @myantcha @yoongiiuu93 @gojomyoneandonly @tsibba01 @jazzluvrr @questioninglifeismypurpose @withmuchluv-tannie @lepples2015 @madiilolz @rntcdsc @dwahaaus @billy-jeans23 @kittycat1dsn @amarawayne @radicaltrashwrites @redcherrytea @dprlive230 @hanniescherries @mar-lo-pap @queenbloody @littlestarstinyseven @yunamay1248 @supernoonanyc @ddaengielle @xmarrx @stydixmxrtinski @shadowyjellyfishfest @ilikekpop-c @xxunholyqueenxx @yuyu0y11 @inconsistentpieceofmess @yourlittleslutcums @sadbitchenergy @vespersbells @naesarang07 @iam-wh0 @arrctica @eclipsedfairy @starsyoongi @victorialoce @icantsleephomesick @jjklvrapobangpo7 @jazzluvrr @svnk1ssd @tremblementdesfleurs @teasykes

[kikiskook]

MOON DREAMS

01. 신월 | SINWOL (new moon)

You say his name in your sleep. Just once. Soft and breathless, like you're reaching for something you can't name. He lies there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he heard it right. Wondering what it means. The next morning, you ask him something that makes his brain stutter: "What if you could touch me while I'm asleep?" He thinks you're joking. You're not.

☾ masterlist | moon dreams masterpost

rating ; 18+ | mature

genre ; bsf to lovers, somnophilia kink, smut, angst, porn with plot

word count ; 3.9k

warnings ; discussions of somnophilia (no acts performed in this chapter), sexual tension, morally conflicted protagonist, consent negotiation

☁️ rundown ; You've always shared everything with your best friend—beds, clothes, sleep, silence. But one day, you offer him something else: yourself. Unconscious. "Do whatever you want," you say. "Just don't tell me." At first, he's stunned. He's not like that. Not a pervert. Not a creep. But when you fall asleep on his couch in nothing but his shirt, thighs bare, lips parted—he starts thinking. What if you meant it? What if he tried… just once?

a/n ; Okay so. Deep breath. Welcome to my somnophilia fic. Yes, I'm actually doing this. Yes, I've lost my mind. Yes, I spent an embarrassing amount of time researching the psychological and ethical dimensions of this particular kink because apparently I can't just write smut like a normal person—I have to put on my researcher glasses and make it a whole thing. I've been marinating on this concept for a while now, and I kept seeing somnophilia represented in fic in ways that made me go "hmm... hmm... hmm" (in the concerned way, not the intrigued way). And look—everyone's entitled to write what they want, explore what they want, read what they want. I'm not here to police anyone's fictional interests or kink their kink. If you're into dubcon or noncon dynamics in your fiction, genuinely, no judgment—those are valid fantasies to explore in safe fictional spaces, and purity/censorship culture can fuck right off. Fiction is not endorsement, and there’s a clear line to draw between fiction and reality. Whether your comfort level aligns with that and to what point, is individual. I will always abide by that. BUT. (You knew there was a but coming.) What does bother me is when dubcon/noncon gets dressed up as totally normal, healthy, and romantic without any acknowledgment of what it actually is. Like when fics are just like ‘they’re dating so obviously he can do whatever he wants to her unconscious body because he's just SO obsessed with her and isn't that hot?’ And it's framed as sweet boyfriend behavior rather than... you know... a violation of consent that would be deeply fucked up in reality. (￣～￣;) There's a difference between ‘I'm deliberately writing noncon/dubcon and we all know that's what this is’ (which again, valid) versus ‘I'm writing noncon/dubcon but pretending it's actually totally fine and normal and healthy.’ One is honest about what it is. The other is... not great, actually. So when I decided I wanted to write somnophilia—which is, let's be real, an inherently risky kink that exists in this fascinating space between trust and vulnerability—I knew I had to do it right. Or at least do it in a way that felt psychologically honest and ethically sound. Hence: Chapter 1, The Consent Chapter™. I know, I know. You're probably thinking ‘girl, I came here for the spicy unconscious touching, not an ethics seminar.’ And don't worry! We'll GET there. But this chapter was absolutely pivotal because consent is the entire foundation that makes somnophilia different from assault. It's needed.

It's a Kiki fic, that's just how we roll here; don't look at me like that, you signed up for this. ┐(￣ヘ￣;)┌

You snore when you’re really tired.

Not loud—just this soft, rhythmic sound that Yoongi finds moderately irritating and completely predictable. 

You’ve been doing it for the past twenty minutes, face-down on his couch with one leg hanging off the edge and your phone still clutched in your hand like you’d been mid-scroll when consciousness finally gave up on you.

He should probably feel bad about letting you crash there. 

You always complain about waking up twisted into shapes that shouldn’t be anatomically possible, and then you spend the next morning being dramatic about it, stretching and groaning like you’ve been hit by a truck.

But honestly? That’s your problem.

You’re a grown adult who chose to faceplant onto his couch instead of walking the extra ten feet to his bed.

Except you also get that weird sleep paralysis thing when you sleep on couches, and you’d mentioned it earlier while picking through the Korean corn dogs you’d insisted on buying from that overpriced food truck downtown.

“It’s like being awake but trapped in concrete,” you’d said, stealing one of his pickled radishes despite having ordered your own. “Can’t move, can’t speak. Sometimes I see stuff that isn’t there.”

Yoongi had made a noncommittal sound and continued eating, but he’d filed the information away like he always does when you mention something that might be important later. 

It’s not that he cares, exactly.

It’s just that you have a tendency to undersell things that are actually problems, and he’s gotten good at reading between the lines.

Like how you’d said the market would be ‘just a quick look around’ and then proceeded to drag him through every single stall, examining handmade jewelry and organic honey like you were conducting scientific research. 

Or how you’d claimed you weren’t hungry but then ate half his food when yours turned out to be disappointing.

You do this thing where you minimize your own needs while simultaneously expecting him to anticipate them anyway. 

It’s annoying. 

But it’s also been going on for so long that he’s developed a kind of automatic response system—buying extra food when you say you’re not hungry, keeping spare phone chargers around for when yours inevitably dies, pretending not to notice when you use his Netflix account more than he does.

Now you’re unconscious on his couch in a thin tank top that’s riding up your back, and he knows that if he leaves you there, you’ll wake up tomorrow feeling like garbage and probably blame him for not moving you.

He sighs. Loudly. Just in case your subconscious is listening and wants to take this opportunity to wake up and relocate itself.

Of course, he’s not that lucky.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, but he’s already standing up, already moving toward you with the resigned energy of someone who’s done this before. 

You’re heavier than you look, and completely limp, which makes maneuvering you off the couch more complicated than it should be. Your head lolls against his chest when he lifts you, and your hair smells like the coconut shampoo you’ve been using since college.

His bed is a single, which is a problem he’s been meaning to address for approximately three years now.

It made sense when he first moved in—cheaper, and it’s not like he had anyone to share it with anyway. 

But you crash here often enough that the lack of space has become a legitimate inconvenience.

And on top of that, you sleep like you’re trying to claim territory, arms and legs sprawling in every direction, and somehow you always end up taking up three-quarters of the mattress.

He sets you down as carefully as possible, but you immediately roll toward the center of the bed, curling into his pillow like you own it. 

Which, at this point, you basically do. 

You sleep here more often than you sleep at your own place, and you’ve never once offered to help pay for sheets or detergent or any of the other domestic expenses that come with your frequent overnight stays.

Not that he’d accept money from you anyway. 

But the principle stands.

Yoongi changes into sleep clothes and brushes his teeth, taking his time in the hope that you might shift to one side of the bed in the meantime. 

But when he comes back, you’ve somehow managed to spread out even more, one arm flung across the space where he’s supposed to sleep.

He considers the couch for about thirty seconds before deciding that his back hurts enough already without adding furniture-sleeping to the mix.

So instead, what he does is carefully lift your arm and slide into the narrow space between your body and the wall, trying not to jostle you too much.

You make a small sound of protest but don’t wake up.

Your leg bumps against his hip, and he gently pushes it back toward your side of the bed—not that there really is a ‘your side’ when the whole mattress is barely wide enough for one person.

This is his life now, apparently.

Sharing a too-small bed with his inconsiderate best friend who steals covers and kicks people in her sleep. 

He should probably be more annoyed about it than he is.

The thing is—he isn’t. 

But he wishes he was. 

And now the room is way too dark—though there’s the faint glow of streetlights filtering through his blinds. 

You’ve gone quiet now, no more snoring, just the hypnotic kind of rhythm of deep sleep—slower than usual, the kind of heavy, even pattern that means you’re really out.

Yoongi closes his eyes and tries to find a comfortable position that doesn’t involve any part of his body touching any part of yours. It’s basically impossible given the space constraints, but he manages to create a few inches of distance by pressing his back against the wall and keeping his arms crossed over his chest.

This is why he hates sharing beds with you. You’re a space invader. A cover thief. A human starfish who somehow always ends up diagonal across the mattress by morning.

He’s almost asleep when you say his name.

Not loud. Barely a whisper, really. But clear enough that there’s no mistaking it.

“Yoongi.”

His eyes snap open.

You’re still facing him, on your side, still breathing deeply, clearly unconscious. But you’d said his name like—

Like what? Like you were calling for him? 

Because it was not the way you usually say it when you’re awake—sharp with irritation, or drawn out with amusement. 

This was… different. Quieter. Like you were tasting the sound of it.

No. No, that’s ridiculous. People say random things in their sleep all the time. It doesn’t mean anything. 

You probably weren’t even dreaming about him specifically. Maybe you were dreaming about work, or school, or some random scenario where his name happened to come up.

But then you make this sound. Soft and breathy and almost like—

What the hell.

Yoongi goes very still, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

Did he hear that right?

You shift beside him, settling deeper into sleep, completely unaware that you just made his brain do jumping jacks. 

Because what the hell was that? What kind of dream are you having that involves saying his name like… like that?

He waits, listening to your breathing, but you don’t say anything else. Just sleep on, peaceful and oblivious while his mind races.

This is weird as fuck. 

Okay. So. You said his name in your sleep. People do that. It doesn’t mean anything. You probably dreamed you were arguing with him, or asking him to pass the remote, or telling him to stop being an asshole about something trivial.

Except it didn’t sound like any of those things.

It sounded like you were whimpering it.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers to the ceiling.

Now his brain is stuck on replay, turning that sound over and over until it’s burned into his memory.

The soft catch in your voice.

The way his name came out like you were reaching for something.

This is not information he needed. This is the kind of information that makes everything complicated and weird, and he was perfectly happy with things being uncomplicated and normal.

And isn’t that just great? Now he’s going to have to pretend he didn’t hear it. 

Tomorrow morning, when you wake up and stretch and complain about being stiff, he’s going to act like you didn’t just make the most embarrassing sound possible while unconscious in his bed.

Great. Amazing. Really looking forward to that performance.

But also—and this is the part that makes him want to hang himself—he’s replaying it. Again. The soft way you breathed his name, like…

Like okay. He’s a healthy adult man. So really, it’s not like he can be blamed. He might be thinking about it. But that’s just—that’s just normal biological response to… whatever the hell that was.

You shift again, and your hand slides across the sheet, fingertips brushing his arm. 

Even in sleep, you’re invading his space, taking more than your share of the mattress.

Typical.

And normal. You’re asleep. People have weird dreams. It doesn’t mean anything, and he’s definitely not going to think about it, and tomorrow morning he’ll pretend this never happened because that’s what normal friends do.

But lying there in the dark, Yoongi finds himself staring at the ceiling and wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do with the way his name sounds when you say it like that.

Nothing, he decides. He’s going to do absolutely nothing with that information. Just pretend it didn’t happen.

He closes his eyes and tries to sleep. 

Yoongi wakes up with your foot in his ribs.

You’re sprawled across his bed like you’re trying to claim the entire mattress, one leg thrown over his hip, the other dangling off the edge. Your arm is flung across his chest, and somehow—somehow—you’ve managed to steal most of his pillow.

This is why he doesn’t share beds with you.

You sleep like you’re fighting invisible enemies.

He nudges your leg with his knee. “Move.”

You make a sound that’s half-whine, half-growl and burrow deeper into his pillow.

“I’m serious. Get off me.”

“Five more minutes,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.

“It’s my bed.”

“Shared custody.”

He considers shoving you off the mattress entirely, but you’ll just whine about it for the next hour, and he hasn’t had coffee yet. 

He’s not equipped to deal with your dramatics without caffeine.

Instead, he carefully extracts himself from your octopus grip and heads to the kitchen, leaving you to sprawl across the entire bed like the space invader you are.

The coffee maker gurgles to life, and he stands there waiting, trying not to think about the weird dream he had. 

Something about you saying his name, which is stupid because you say his name all the time. There’s nothing significant about hearing it in a dream.

Except it hadn’t felt like a… dream.

“Coffee,” you announce from the doorway, bedhair all over the place which makes him almost snort (he doesn’t), wearing his oversized t-shirt that you definitely stole from his dresser.

“Make your own.”

“You’re already making some.”

“For myself.”

You shuffle over anyway, bumping against his shoulder as you reach for the sugar.

Your skin is still warm from sleep, still smelling like cashmere; and there’s a crease on your cheek from his pillowcase.

“You kicked me,” you complain, stirring an obscene amount of sugar into your mug.

“You were taking up the entire bed.”

“I was not.”

“You had your foot in my kidney.”

“That’s not my fault. You have a tiny bed.”

Yoongi takes a long sip of his coffee and decides not to engage. 

You’ll find something else to complain about in approximately thirty seconds anyway.

You lean against the counter, studying him over the rim of your mug. He looks back at you, blinking—and oh, oh he doesn’t like that look at all. 

“What?” he says.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Don’t.”

You snort. “Very funny. I had an interesting dream last night.”

Here you go.

You always want to dissect your dreams like they mean something profound instead of just being the random firing of neurons during REM sleep.

“Riveting,” he says flatly.

“I dreamed you were touching me.”

Yoongi nearly chokes on his coffee. 

Because what the fuck did you just say.

“What?”

“Not like that,” you say quickly, though there’s something in your voice that suggests maybe it was exactly like that. “I mean, maybe like that. It was weird.”

“You’re weird.”

“I’m serious.” You set down your mug and turn to face him fully. “It got me thinking.”

“Always dangerous.”

“Shut up. I’m trying to have a conversation here.”

“About your sex dreams. Hard pass.”

“It wasn’t a sex dream.” But you’re fidgeting now, picking at the hem of his shirt. “It was just… touching. While I was asleep.”

Yoongi stares at you. “Okay?”

“Don’t you think that’s kind of… interesting?”

His eyes narrow to slits.

“I think you need therapy.”

“I’m being serious.” You’re warming up to whatever point you’re trying to make, eyes getting brighter. “Like, the idea of being touched while you’re unconscious. Vulnerable. But safe.”

“That sounds like something you should discuss with a professional.”

“Or with you.”

He sets down his coffee cup with more force than necessary. 

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s fucking weird, that’s why.”

“Everything’s weird if you think about it too hard.”

“This is weird without thinking about it at all.”

You’re quiet for a moment, chewing on your lower lip. 

He recognizes this look—it’s the same expression you get when you’re about to suggest something monumentally stupid.

“Bet you’ve thought about it though,” you say finally.

He frowns. “No.”

“Come on. You’re not curious?”

“About what? Molesting unconscious people? Shockingly, no.”

“It’s not molesting if there’s consent.”

Yoongi stares at you like you’re speaking in tongues. 

Because seriously—there’s no way.

There’s no way his perfectly sane (sometimes) best friend is literally suggesting what he thinks you’re suggesting.

“Did you hit your head when you fell off the bed this morning?”

“I didn’t fall off the bed.”

“Then what’s your excuse for this conversation?”

You lean forward, elbows on the counter. “I’m just saying, hypothetically, if someone wanted to try it—”

“We’re not talking about this.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s insane?”

“It’s not insane. It’s just different.”

“It’s perverted.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

Yoongi pinches the bridge of his nose. “I need more coffee for this.”

“I’m not asking you to do anything,” you say quickly. “I’m just… talking about it.”

“Well, stop.”

But you don’t stop. 

Because you never stop when you get an idea stuck in your head. You’re like a dog with a bone, worrying at it until everyone around you wants to scream.

“I read about it online,” you continue, ignoring his obvious discomfort. “It’s called somnophilia. And it’s not that uncommon.”

“Great. Wonderful. You learned a new word.”

“Some people find it really intimate. The trust aspect.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going?”

“Anywhere that isn’t here.”

You grab his arm as he tries to walk past you. “Wait. Just… hear me out.”

“No.”

“Sixty seconds? Please. That’s all I’m asking.”

“I said no.”

“You’re not even curious? Not even a little bit?”

He looks down at your hand on his arm, then back at your face.

You’re watching him with that stubborn expression that means you’re not going to let this go until he at least pretends to consider it.

“You’re not serious,” he says finally.

“I’m dead serious.”

“You want me to… what? Touch you while you’re asleep?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I want to talk about it.”

Yoongi pulls his arm free and takes a step back. “This is the stupidest conversation we’ve ever had.”

“We’ve had stupider.”

“Name one.”

“That time you tried to convince me that cereal was soup.”

“Cereal is soup.”

“See? Stupider.”

Despite himself, Yoongi almost smiles. Almost. But then he remembers what you’re actually suggesting, and the moment passes.

“This is different,” he says.

“How?”

“Because cereal doesn’t involve me potentially assaulting you in your sleep.”

“It’s not assault if I ask for it.”

“It’s somethign.”

You’re quiet for a moment, studying his face. “You’re really freaked out by this.”

“Of course I’m freaked out by this.”

“Why?”

“Because normal people don’t ask their friends to molest them?”

“I’m not asking you to molest me! I’m asking you to… explore a fantasy.”

“Your fantasy.”

“Maybe yours too.”

Yoongi stares at you. 

“I don’t have fantasies about unconscious people.”

“But you have fantasies.”

“Not about you.”

“I didn’t say they had to be about me,” you say defensively.

“Then what are we talking about?”

“I don’t know.” You’re fidgeting again, picking at the counter edge. “I just thought… we trust each other. It doesn’t have to be weird.”

“It’s already weird.”

“Only because you’re making it weird.”

“I’m making it weird?”

“Yes.”

“You’re the one who brought up getting touched in your sleep.”

“Because I trust you.”

Silence.

Yoongi feels something twist in his chest—guilt, maybe, or responsibility. 

The weight of being someone’s safe person.

He sighs heavily. “What would… what would it involve?”

Your face lights up like you won the lottery. “Really?”

“I didn’t say yes. I’m asking what you’re even talking about.”

“Right. Okay.” You’re practically bouncing now, hands gesturing as you talk. “So the whole point is that I’d be asleep. Completely unconscious. And you could… touch me.”

“Touch you how?”

“However you wanted.”

Yoongi stares at you. “That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t know! That’s the point. I wouldn’t know what you did unless I woke up.”

“And if you woke up?”

“Then you’d stop. Obviously.”

“That is insane.”

“It’s not insane. People do this.”

“Not people I know.”

“Well, now you know me.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Let me get this straight. You want me to… what? Grope you while you’re unconscious?”

“If you wanted to.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

You shrug. “Then you don’t do anything. You just let me sleep.”

“And you’d never know either way.”

“That’s the point.”

“What kind of point is that?”

“The exciting kind.” You’re leaning forward now, eyes bright with something that looks dangerously close to enthusiasm. “Think about it. I’d go to sleep not knowing if you were going to touch me or not. And you’d know, but I wouldn’t. There’s this whole… tension.”

“Tension.”

“Yeah. Like, maybe you did something. Maybe you didn’t. I’d never know for sure.”

Yoongi looks at you like you’ve lost your fucking mind.  “Why would you want that?”

“Because it’s exciting! The not knowing. The possibility.”

“You’re fucked up.”

“I’m curious.”

“About being molested in your sleep.”

“About being desired,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“Yes. If you touched me, it would be because you wanted to. Not because I was awake and asking for it.”

“That’s…” He stops, trying to process what you just said. “That’s the most backwards logic I’ve ever heard.”

“It makes sense to me.”

“Nothing about this makes sense.”

You’re quiet for a moment, chewing on your lower lip. 

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“I don’t want to do any of this.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

Silence, again. 

He stares at the brown liquid swimming in his cup. Thinks about what you’re saying. Wonders why you’d want that at all.

But most importantly…

“Why me?” he asks finally.

“What?”

“Why are you asking me? There are other people. People who might actually be into this shit.”

“I don’t trust other people.”

“You shouldn’t trust me either.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a guy?”

“So?”

“So guys are…” He gestures vaguely. “We think about sex. A lot. More than we should.”

“I know.”

“And you’re asking me to touch you while you’re unconscious and can’t say no.”

“But I’m saying yes now.”

“That’s not how consent works.”

“Isn’t it?”

Yoongi stares at you. “I don’t know. I’m not a lawyer.”

“You’re overthinking this.”

“Someone should.”

You’re quiet again, but he can see the wheels turning in your head—that conniving expression you get when you’re trying to convince him to watch some terrible movie you saw a trailer for.

“What if we had rules?” you say finally.

“Rules.”

“Yeah. Like, boundaries. Things you can and can’t do.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know. That’s why we’d discuss it.”

“This is the part where you tell me what you actually want.”

You fidget with your coffee mug. “I want to not know.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“Look, it doesn’t have to be complicated. You either want to touch me or you don’t. If you do, then when I’m asleep, you can. If you don’t, then you don’t. Either way, I don’t want to know about it.”

“Why?”

“Because then we can still be friends.”

“We’re friends now.”

“Yeah, but if I knew you touched me while I was asleep, it would change things.”

“It’s going to change things anyway.”

“Not if I don’t know about it.”

Yoongi stares at you. “That’s the most ridiculous logic I’ve ever heard.”

“It makes sense to me.”

“Nothing about you makes sense.”

You grin. “That’s why you love me.”

“I don’t love you.”

“You tolerate me.”

“Barely.”

But there’s something in his chest that twists when you smile at him like that. Something that makes him think maybe you’re not as crazy as you sound.

Maybe.

“So?” you prompt. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re insane.”

“But?”

“There is no but.”

“There’s always a but.”

Yoongi looks at you—really looks at you.

At the way you’re watching him with hopeful eyes, like you actually think he might agree to this.

At the way you’re fidgeting with your coffee mug, nervous but trying to hide it.

You trust him.

Enough to ask him something like this.

Enough to put yourself in a position where you’d be completely vulnerable and defenseless.

It’s fucked up.

It’s also…

“I need to think about it,” he says finally.

Your face lights up. “Really?”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“But you didn’t say no.”

“I’m saying I need to think.”

“How long?”

“However long it takes.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

You’re practically vibrating with excitement now, and he immediately regrets not just saying no.

Because now you’re going to spend the next however-long pestering him about it, dropping hints and giving him looks like you’re sharing some kind of secret.

Which, he supposes, you are.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he says quickly. “Me thinking about it. It doesn’t mean I’m going to do it.”

“I know.”

“I’m probably going to say no.”

“Okay.”

“I probably should say no.”

“Probably.”

“Any sane person would say no.”

“Sane people are boring.”

He purses his lips together, lets out a loud sigh.

“I’m taking a shower,” he announces, setting his empty mug in the sink.

“Think about it,” you call after him as he heads toward the bathroom.

“I’m definitely not thinking about it in the shower.”

“Why not? That’s when people do their best thinking.”

“I’m washing my hair. Not contemplating your weird sex fantasies.”

“They’re not weird!”

“They’re fucking bizarre!”

He slams the bathroom door behind him, and through the thin walls, he can hear you laughing like this whole conversation was perfectly normal instead of completely insane.

Which it was.

Completely, utterly insane.

And he’s actually considering it.

Christ.

©️ kikiskook aka @jungkoode 2025.

do not translate. do not repost.

TL: @billy-jeans23 @hoelychildofgod @kam9404 @myantcha @yoongiiuu93 @gojomyoneandonly @tsibba01 @jazzluvrr @questioninglifeismypurpose @withmuchluv-tannie @lepples2015 @madiilolz @rntcdsc @dwahaaus @billy-jeans23 @kittycat1dsn @amarawayne @radicaltrashwrites @redcherrytea @dprlive230 @hanniescherries @mar-lo-pap @queenbloody @littlestarstinyseven @yunamay1248 @supernoonanyc @ddaengielle @xmarrx @stydixmxrtinski @shadowyjellyfishfest @ilikekpop-c @xxunholyqueenxx @yuyu0y11 @inconsistentpieceofmess @yourlittleslutcums @sadbitchenergy @vespersbells @naesarang07 @iam-wh0 @arrctica @eclipsedfairy @starsyoongi @victorialoce @icantsleephomesick @jjklvrapobangpo7 @jazzluvrr @svnk1ssd @tremblementdesfleurs @teasykes

[kikiskook]

TL 2: @meigalaxy @viahjgd @mindurbuzznezz @occeanawave @mellyyyyyyx @mintyunho @lilbny-blog @yoongiminnie444 @mapleleafsamurai @itssluthourhere @03galaxywriter03 @ot7girl4l

[kikiskook]

MOON DREAMS

01. 신월 | SINWOL (new moon)

You say his name in your sleep. Just once. Soft and breathless, like you're reaching for something you can't name. He lies there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he heard it right. Wondering what it means. The next morning, you ask him something that makes his brain stutter: "What if you could touch me while I'm asleep?" He thinks you're joking. You're not.

☾ masterlist | moon dreams masterpost

rating ; 18+ | mature

genre ; bsf to lovers, somnophilia kink, smut, angst, porn with plot

word count ; 3.9k

warnings ; discussions of somnophilia (no acts performed in this chapter), sexual tension, morally conflicted protagonist, consent negotiation

☁️ rundown ; You've always shared everything with your best friend—beds, clothes, sleep, silence. But one day, you offer him something else: yourself. Unconscious. "Do whatever you want," you say. "Just don't tell me." At first, he's stunned. He's not like that. Not a pervert. Not a creep. But when you fall asleep on his couch in nothing but his shirt, thighs bare, lips parted—he starts thinking. What if you meant it? What if he tried… just once?

a/n ; Okay so. Deep breath. Welcome to my somnophilia fic. Yes, I'm actually doing this. Yes, I've lost my mind. Yes, I spent an embarrassing amount of time researching the psychological and ethical dimensions of this particular kink because apparently I can't just write smut like a normal person—I have to put on my researcher glasses and make it a whole thing. I've been marinating on this concept for a while now, and I kept seeing somnophilia represented in fic in ways that made me go "hmm... hmm... hmm" (in the concerned way, not the intrigued way). And look—everyone's entitled to write what they want, explore what they want, read what they want. I'm not here to police anyone's fictional interests or kink their kink. If you're into dubcon or noncon dynamics in your fiction, genuinely, no judgment—those are valid fantasies to explore in safe fictional spaces, and purity/censorship culture can fuck right off. Fiction is not endorsement, and there’s a clear line to draw between fiction and reality. Whether your comfort level aligns with that and to what point, is individual. I will always abide by that. BUT. (You knew there was a but coming.) What does bother me is when dubcon/noncon gets dressed up as totally normal, healthy, and romantic without any acknowledgment of what it actually is. Like when fics are just like ‘they’re dating so obviously he can do whatever he wants to her unconscious body because he's just SO obsessed with her and isn't that hot?’ And it's framed as sweet boyfriend behavior rather than... you know... a violation of consent that would be deeply fucked up in reality. (￣～￣;) There's a difference between ‘I'm deliberately writing noncon/dubcon and we all know that's what this is’ (which again, valid) versus ‘I'm writing noncon/dubcon but pretending it's actually totally fine and normal and healthy.’ One is honest about what it is. The other is... not great, actually. So when I decided I wanted to write somnophilia—which is, let's be real, an inherently risky kink that exists in this fascinating space between trust and vulnerability—I knew I had to do it right. Or at least do it in a way that felt psychologically honest and ethically sound. Hence: Chapter 1, The Consent Chapter™. I know, I know. You're probably thinking ‘girl, I came here for the spicy unconscious touching, not an ethics seminar.’ And don't worry! We'll GET there. But this chapter was absolutely pivotal because consent is the entire foundation that makes somnophilia different from assault. It's needed.

It's a Kiki fic, that's just how we roll here; don't look at me like that, you signed up for this. ┐(￣ヘ￣;)┌

You snore when you’re really tired.

Not loud—just this soft, rhythmic sound that Yoongi finds moderately irritating and completely predictable. 

You’ve been doing it for the past twenty minutes, face-down on his couch with one leg hanging off the edge and your phone still clutched in your hand like you’d been mid-scroll when consciousness finally gave up on you.

He should probably feel bad about letting you crash there. 

You always complain about waking up twisted into shapes that shouldn’t be anatomically possible, and then you spend the next morning being dramatic about it, stretching and groaning like you’ve been hit by a truck.

But honestly? That’s your problem.

You’re a grown adult who chose to faceplant onto his couch instead of walking the extra ten feet to his bed.

Except you also get that weird sleep paralysis thing when you sleep on couches, and you’d mentioned it earlier while picking through the Korean corn dogs you’d insisted on buying from that overpriced food truck downtown.

“It’s like being awake but trapped in concrete,” you’d said, stealing one of his pickled radishes despite having ordered your own. “Can’t move, can’t speak. Sometimes I see stuff that isn’t there.”

Yoongi had made a noncommittal sound and continued eating, but he’d filed the information away like he always does when you mention something that might be important later. 

It’s not that he cares, exactly.

It’s just that you have a tendency to undersell things that are actually problems, and he’s gotten good at reading between the lines.

Like how you’d said the market would be ‘just a quick look around’ and then proceeded to drag him through every single stall, examining handmade jewelry and organic honey like you were conducting scientific research. 

Or how you’d claimed you weren’t hungry but then ate half his food when yours turned out to be disappointing.

You do this thing where you minimize your own needs while simultaneously expecting him to anticipate them anyway. 

It’s annoying. 

But it’s also been going on for so long that he’s developed a kind of automatic response system—buying extra food when you say you’re not hungry, keeping spare phone chargers around for when yours inevitably dies, pretending not to notice when you use his Netflix account more than he does.

Now you’re unconscious on his couch in a thin tank top that’s riding up your back, and he knows that if he leaves you there, you’ll wake up tomorrow feeling like garbage and probably blame him for not moving you.

He sighs. Loudly. Just in case your subconscious is listening and wants to take this opportunity to wake up and relocate itself.

Of course, he’s not that lucky.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, but he’s already standing up, already moving toward you with the resigned energy of someone who’s done this before. 

You’re heavier than you look, and completely limp, which makes maneuvering you off the couch more complicated than it should be. Your head lolls against his chest when he lifts you, and your hair smells like the coconut shampoo you’ve been using since college.

His bed is a single, which is a problem he’s been meaning to address for approximately three years now.

It made sense when he first moved in—cheaper, and it’s not like he had anyone to share it with anyway. 

But you crash here often enough that the lack of space has become a legitimate inconvenience.

And on top of that, you sleep like you’re trying to claim territory, arms and legs sprawling in every direction, and somehow you always end up taking up three-quarters of the mattress.

He sets you down as carefully as possible, but you immediately roll toward the center of the bed, curling into his pillow like you own it. 

Which, at this point, you basically do. 

You sleep here more often than you sleep at your own place, and you’ve never once offered to help pay for sheets or detergent or any of the other domestic expenses that come with your frequent overnight stays.

Not that he’d accept money from you anyway. 

But the principle stands.

Yoongi changes into sleep clothes and brushes his teeth, taking his time in the hope that you might shift to one side of the bed in the meantime. 

But when he comes back, you’ve somehow managed to spread out even more, one arm flung across the space where he’s supposed to sleep.

He considers the couch for about thirty seconds before deciding that his back hurts enough already without adding furniture-sleeping to the mix.

So instead, what he does is carefully lift your arm and slide into the narrow space between your body and the wall, trying not to jostle you too much.

You make a small sound of protest but don’t wake up.

Your leg bumps against his hip, and he gently pushes it back toward your side of the bed—not that there really is a ‘your side’ when the whole mattress is barely wide enough for one person.

This is his life now, apparently.

Sharing a too-small bed with his inconsiderate best friend who steals covers and kicks people in her sleep. 

He should probably be more annoyed about it than he is.

The thing is—he isn’t. 

But he wishes he was. 

And now the room is way too dark—though there’s the faint glow of streetlights filtering through his blinds. 

You’ve gone quiet now, no more snoring, just the hypnotic kind of rhythm of deep sleep—slower than usual, the kind of heavy, even pattern that means you’re really out.

Yoongi closes his eyes and tries to find a comfortable position that doesn’t involve any part of his body touching any part of yours. It’s basically impossible given the space constraints, but he manages to create a few inches of distance by pressing his back against the wall and keeping his arms crossed over his chest.

This is why he hates sharing beds with you. You’re a space invader. A cover thief. A human starfish who somehow always ends up diagonal across the mattress by morning.

He’s almost asleep when you say his name.

Not loud. Barely a whisper, really. But clear enough that there’s no mistaking it.

“Yoongi.”

His eyes snap open.

You’re still facing him, on your side, still breathing deeply, clearly unconscious. But you’d said his name like—

Like what? Like you were calling for him? 

Because it was not the way you usually say it when you’re awake—sharp with irritation, or drawn out with amusement. 

This was… different. Quieter. Like you were tasting the sound of it.

No. No, that’s ridiculous. People say random things in their sleep all the time. It doesn’t mean anything. 

You probably weren’t even dreaming about him specifically. Maybe you were dreaming about work, or school, or some random scenario where his name happened to come up.

But then you make this sound. Soft and breathy and almost like—

What the hell.

Yoongi goes very still, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

Did he hear that right?

You shift beside him, settling deeper into sleep, completely unaware that you just made his brain do jumping jacks. 

Because what the hell was that? What kind of dream are you having that involves saying his name like… like that?

He waits, listening to your breathing, but you don’t say anything else. Just sleep on, peaceful and oblivious while his mind races.

This is weird as fuck. 

Okay. So. You said his name in your sleep. People do that. It doesn’t mean anything. You probably dreamed you were arguing with him, or asking him to pass the remote, or telling him to stop being an asshole about something trivial.

Except it didn’t sound like any of those things.

It sounded like you were whimpering it.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers to the ceiling.

Now his brain is stuck on replay, turning that sound over and over until it’s burned into his memory.

The soft catch in your voice.

The way his name came out like you were reaching for something.

This is not information he needed. This is the kind of information that makes everything complicated and weird, and he was perfectly happy with things being uncomplicated and normal.

And isn’t that just great? Now he’s going to have to pretend he didn’t hear it. 

Tomorrow morning, when you wake up and stretch and complain about being stiff, he’s going to act like you didn’t just make the most embarrassing sound possible while unconscious in his bed.

Great. Amazing. Really looking forward to that performance.

But also—and this is the part that makes him want to hang himself—he’s replaying it. Again. The soft way you breathed his name, like…

Like okay. He’s a healthy adult man. So really, it’s not like he can be blamed. He might be thinking about it. But that’s just—that’s just normal biological response to… whatever the hell that was.

You shift again, and your hand slides across the sheet, fingertips brushing his arm. 

Even in sleep, you’re invading his space, taking more than your share of the mattress.

Typical.

And normal. You’re asleep. People have weird dreams. It doesn’t mean anything, and he’s definitely not going to think about it, and tomorrow morning he’ll pretend this never happened because that’s what normal friends do.

But lying there in the dark, Yoongi finds himself staring at the ceiling and wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do with the way his name sounds when you say it like that.

Nothing, he decides. He’s going to do absolutely nothing with that information. Just pretend it didn’t happen.

He closes his eyes and tries to sleep. 

Yoongi wakes up with your foot in his ribs.

You’re sprawled across his bed like you’re trying to claim the entire mattress, one leg thrown over his hip, the other dangling off the edge. Your arm is flung across his chest, and somehow—somehow—you’ve managed to steal most of his pillow.

This is why he doesn’t share beds with you.

You sleep like you’re fighting invisible enemies.

He nudges your leg with his knee. “Move.”

You make a sound that’s half-whine, half-growl and burrow deeper into his pillow.

“I’m serious. Get off me.”

“Five more minutes,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.

“It’s my bed.”

“Shared custody.”

He considers shoving you off the mattress entirely, but you’ll just whine about it for the next hour, and he hasn’t had coffee yet. 

He’s not equipped to deal with your dramatics without caffeine.

Instead, he carefully extracts himself from your octopus grip and heads to the kitchen, leaving you to sprawl across the entire bed like the space invader you are.

The coffee maker gurgles to life, and he stands there waiting, trying not to think about the weird dream he had. 

Something about you saying his name, which is stupid because you say his name all the time. There’s nothing significant about hearing it in a dream.

Except it hadn’t felt like a… dream.

“Coffee,” you announce from the doorway, bedhair all over the place which makes him almost snort (he doesn’t), wearing his oversized t-shirt that you definitely stole from his dresser.

“Make your own.”

“You’re already making some.”

“For myself.”

You shuffle over anyway, bumping against his shoulder as you reach for the sugar.

Your skin is still warm from sleep, still smelling like cashmere; and there’s a crease on your cheek from his pillowcase.

“You kicked me,” you complain, stirring an obscene amount of sugar into your mug.

“You were taking up the entire bed.”

“I was not.”

“You had your foot in my kidney.”

“That’s not my fault. You have a tiny bed.”

Yoongi takes a long sip of his coffee and decides not to engage. 

You’ll find something else to complain about in approximately thirty seconds anyway.

You lean against the counter, studying him over the rim of your mug. He looks back at you, blinking—and oh, oh he doesn’t like that look at all. 

“What?” he says.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Don’t.”

You snort. “Very funny. I had an interesting dream last night.”

Here you go.

You always want to dissect your dreams like they mean something profound instead of just being the random firing of neurons during REM sleep.

“Riveting,” he says flatly.

“I dreamed you were touching me.”

Yoongi nearly chokes on his coffee. 

Because what the fuck did you just say.

“What?”

“Not like that,” you say quickly, though there’s something in your voice that suggests maybe it was exactly like that. “I mean, maybe like that. It was weird.”

“You’re weird.”

“I’m serious.” You set down your mug and turn to face him fully. “It got me thinking.”

“Always dangerous.”

“Shut up. I’m trying to have a conversation here.”

“About your sex dreams. Hard pass.”

“It wasn’t a sex dream.” But you’re fidgeting now, picking at the hem of his shirt. “It was just… touching. While I was asleep.”

Yoongi stares at you. “Okay?”

“Don’t you think that’s kind of… interesting?”

His eyes narrow to slits.

“I think you need therapy.”

“I’m being serious.” You’re warming up to whatever point you’re trying to make, eyes getting brighter. “Like, the idea of being touched while you’re unconscious. Vulnerable. But safe.”

“That sounds like something you should discuss with a professional.”

“Or with you.”

He sets down his coffee cup with more force than necessary. 

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s fucking weird, that’s why.”

“Everything’s weird if you think about it too hard.”

“This is weird without thinking about it at all.”

You’re quiet for a moment, chewing on your lower lip. 

He recognizes this look—it’s the same expression you get when you’re about to suggest something monumentally stupid.

“Bet you’ve thought about it though,” you say finally.

He frowns. “No.”

“Come on. You’re not curious?”

“About what? Molesting unconscious people? Shockingly, no.”

“It’s not molesting if there’s consent.”

Yoongi stares at you like you’re speaking in tongues. 

Because seriously—there’s no way.

There’s no way his perfectly sane (sometimes) best friend is literally suggesting what he thinks you’re suggesting.

“Did you hit your head when you fell off the bed this morning?”

“I didn’t fall off the bed.”

“Then what’s your excuse for this conversation?”

You lean forward, elbows on the counter. “I’m just saying, hypothetically, if someone wanted to try it—”

“We’re not talking about this.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s insane?”

“It’s not insane. It’s just different.”

“It’s perverted.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

Yoongi pinches the bridge of his nose. “I need more coffee for this.”

“I’m not asking you to do anything,” you say quickly. “I’m just… talking about it.”

“Well, stop.”

But you don’t stop. 

Because you never stop when you get an idea stuck in your head. You’re like a dog with a bone, worrying at it until everyone around you wants to scream.

“I read about it online,” you continue, ignoring his obvious discomfort. “It’s called somnophilia. And it’s not that uncommon.”

“Great. Wonderful. You learned a new word.”

“Some people find it really intimate. The trust aspect.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going?”

“Anywhere that isn’t here.”

You grab his arm as he tries to walk past you. “Wait. Just… hear me out.”

“No.”

“Sixty seconds? Please. That’s all I’m asking.”

“I said no.”

“You’re not even curious? Not even a little bit?”

He looks down at your hand on his arm, then back at your face.

You’re watching him with that stubborn expression that means you’re not going to let this go until he at least pretends to consider it.

“You’re not serious,” he says finally.

“I’m dead serious.”

“You want me to… what? Touch you while you’re asleep?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I want to talk about it.”

Yoongi pulls his arm free and takes a step back. “This is the stupidest conversation we’ve ever had.”

“We’ve had stupider.”

“Name one.”

“That time you tried to convince me that cereal was soup.”

“Cereal is soup.”

“See? Stupider.”

Despite himself, Yoongi almost smiles. Almost. But then he remembers what you’re actually suggesting, and the moment passes.

“This is different,” he says.

“How?”

“Because cereal doesn’t involve me potentially assaulting you in your sleep.”

“It’s not assault if I ask for it.”

“It’s somethign.”

You’re quiet for a moment, studying his face. “You’re really freaked out by this.”

“Of course I’m freaked out by this.”

“Why?”

“Because normal people don’t ask their friends to molest them?”

“I’m not asking you to molest me! I’m asking you to… explore a fantasy.”

“Your fantasy.”

“Maybe yours too.”

Yoongi stares at you. 

“I don’t have fantasies about unconscious people.”

“But you have fantasies.”

“Not about you.”

“I didn’t say they had to be about me,” you say defensively.

“Then what are we talking about?”

“I don’t know.” You’re fidgeting again, picking at the counter edge. “I just thought… we trust each other. It doesn’t have to be weird.”

“It’s already weird.”

“Only because you’re making it weird.”

“I’m making it weird?”

“Yes.”

“You’re the one who brought up getting touched in your sleep.”

“Because I trust you.”

Silence.

Yoongi feels something twist in his chest—guilt, maybe, or responsibility. 

The weight of being someone’s safe person.

He sighs heavily. “What would… what would it involve?”

Your face lights up like you won the lottery. “Really?”

“I didn’t say yes. I’m asking what you’re even talking about.”

“Right. Okay.” You’re practically bouncing now, hands gesturing as you talk. “So the whole point is that I’d be asleep. Completely unconscious. And you could… touch me.”

“Touch you how?”

“However you wanted.”

Yoongi stares at you. “That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t know! That’s the point. I wouldn’t know what you did unless I woke up.”

“And if you woke up?”

“Then you’d stop. Obviously.”

“That is insane.”

“It’s not insane. People do this.”

“Not people I know.”

“Well, now you know me.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Let me get this straight. You want me to… what? Grope you while you’re unconscious?”

“If you wanted to.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

You shrug. “Then you don’t do anything. You just let me sleep.”

“And you’d never know either way.”

“That’s the point.”

“What kind of point is that?”

“The exciting kind.” You’re leaning forward now, eyes bright with something that looks dangerously close to enthusiasm. “Think about it. I’d go to sleep not knowing if you were going to touch me or not. And you’d know, but I wouldn’t. There’s this whole… tension.”

“Tension.”

“Yeah. Like, maybe you did something. Maybe you didn’t. I’d never know for sure.”

Yoongi looks at you like you’ve lost your fucking mind.  “Why would you want that?”

“Because it’s exciting! The not knowing. The possibility.”

“You’re fucked up.”

“I’m curious.”

“About being molested in your sleep.”

“About being desired,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“Yes. If you touched me, it would be because you wanted to. Not because I was awake and asking for it.”

“That’s…” He stops, trying to process what you just said. “That’s the most backwards logic I’ve ever heard.”

“It makes sense to me.”

“Nothing about this makes sense.”

You’re quiet for a moment, chewing on your lower lip. 

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“I don’t want to do any of this.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

Silence, again. 

He stares at the brown liquid swimming in his cup. Thinks about what you’re saying. Wonders why you’d want that at all.

But most importantly…

“Why me?” he asks finally.

“What?”

“Why are you asking me? There are other people. People who might actually be into this shit.”

“I don’t trust other people.”

“You shouldn’t trust me either.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a guy?”

“So?”

“So guys are…” He gestures vaguely. “We think about sex. A lot. More than we should.”

“I know.”

“And you’re asking me to touch you while you’re unconscious and can’t say no.”

“But I’m saying yes now.”

“That’s not how consent works.”

“Isn’t it?”

Yoongi stares at you. “I don’t know. I’m not a lawyer.”

“You’re overthinking this.”

“Someone should.”

You’re quiet again, but he can see the wheels turning in your head—that conniving expression you get when you’re trying to convince him to watch some terrible movie you saw a trailer for.

“What if we had rules?” you say finally.

“Rules.”

“Yeah. Like, boundaries. Things you can and can’t do.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know. That’s why we’d discuss it.”

“This is the part where you tell me what you actually want.”

You fidget with your coffee mug. “I want to not know.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“Look, it doesn’t have to be complicated. You either want to touch me or you don’t. If you do, then when I’m asleep, you can. If you don’t, then you don’t. Either way, I don’t want to know about it.”

“Why?”

“Because then we can still be friends.”

“We’re friends now.”

“Yeah, but if I knew you touched me while I was asleep, it would change things.”

“It’s going to change things anyway.”

“Not if I don’t know about it.”

Yoongi stares at you. “That’s the most ridiculous logic I’ve ever heard.”

“It makes sense to me.”

“Nothing about you makes sense.”

You grin. “That’s why you love me.”

“I don’t love you.”

“You tolerate me.”

“Barely.”

But there’s something in his chest that twists when you smile at him like that. Something that makes him think maybe you’re not as crazy as you sound.

Maybe.

“So?” you prompt. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re insane.”

“But?”

“There is no but.”

“There’s always a but.”

Yoongi looks at you—really looks at you.

At the way you’re watching him with hopeful eyes, like you actually think he might agree to this.

At the way you’re fidgeting with your coffee mug, nervous but trying to hide it.

You trust him.

Enough to ask him something like this.

Enough to put yourself in a position where you’d be completely vulnerable and defenseless.

It’s fucked up.

It’s also…

“I need to think about it,” he says finally.

Your face lights up. “Really?”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“But you didn’t say no.”

“I’m saying I need to think.”

“How long?”

“However long it takes.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

You’re practically vibrating with excitement now, and he immediately regrets not just saying no.

Because now you’re going to spend the next however-long pestering him about it, dropping hints and giving him looks like you’re sharing some kind of secret.

Which, he supposes, you are.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he says quickly. “Me thinking about it. It doesn’t mean I’m going to do it.”

“I know.”

“I’m probably going to say no.”

“Okay.”

“I probably should say no.”

“Probably.”

“Any sane person would say no.”

“Sane people are boring.”

He purses his lips together, lets out a loud sigh.

“I’m taking a shower,” he announces, setting his empty mug in the sink.

“Think about it,” you call after him as he heads toward the bathroom.

“I’m definitely not thinking about it in the shower.”

“Why not? That’s when people do their best thinking.”

“I’m washing my hair. Not contemplating your weird sex fantasies.”

“They’re not weird!”

“They’re fucking bizarre!”

He slams the bathroom door behind him, and through the thin walls, he can hear you laughing like this whole conversation was perfectly normal instead of completely insane.

Which it was.

Completely, utterly insane.

And he’s actually considering it.

Christ.

©️ kikiskook aka @jungkoode 2025.

do not translate. do not repost.

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