jungkoodeâs writing lab eng/work experiments | os & mini series
asks closed in here. main: @jungkoode no consistency, no frequency. just vibes. (ă ̄â˝ďżŁ)ă
this is jungkoodeâs chaos denâaka where @jungkoode drops her unhinged, exploratory WIPs, chaotic drafts, crack drabbles, and emotional damage side quests. itâs the experimental junk drawer of the main fics: not polished, not promised, and definitely not sane. if main blog is the storybook, this oneâs the scribbled margins, post-it notes, and âwhat if I ruined everyoneâs life but sexilyâ drafts. read at your own risk (and pleasure).
Two years after your husbandâs death, you receive a gift from your family: an android version of him, programmed to help you process grief. But Jungkook had secretsâand so did you. And no one warned the machine what love looks like when itâs wilted, when itâs already buried. Not every resurrection is a miracle.
đŹđ˛đ§đ¨đŠđŹđ˘đŹ; 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.
đŠđđ˘đŤđ˘đ§đ ; jung hoseok x nb!reader
đ đđ§đŤđ; crime/mafia au (kkangpae), forbidden romance, smut
đ°đđŤđ§đ˘đ§đ đŹ; explicit sexual content, piv sex (unprotected but they're tested and theyâre 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 âdarlingâ used as a weapon of mass destruction.
đ/đ§; HELLO HELLO HELLO we are SO back in the Kkangpae Universe babyyyyy đĽđŠš 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)âand 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 universeâthink 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.
Rooâthis one's for you. Again. As always. You keep commissioning these and I keep losing years off my life writing them. Fair trade. đ
Enjoy, don't perceive me, and please yell at me in the comments because I WILL be refreshing. đŤĄ
The mission wasnât supposed to leave marks.
But here you are anyway, perched on the examination table in the medical wing at half past eleven, watching Hoseokâs jaw tick as he catalogs the damage.Â
Late shift means itâs just the two of youâthe night nurse dismissed with a curt wave after one look at your split lip and the bruising blooming across your ribs.
âTraining accident,â youâd said.
He hadnât believed you.
But it doesnât matterâit never does, because heâs still going to fix it.
When itâs you, heâs always going to fix it.
His hands are cold when they press against your ribs, efficient, therapeutic even. Youâre not wearing a shirtâditched it the moment he told you to, because modesty is stupid when someoneâs checking for internal bleedingâand the sterile air makes goosebumps rise across your skin.
Or maybe thatâs just him.
âBreathe in.â
You do.
âOut.â
The exhale hurts less than it should. Nothingâs broken, probably. Youâve had broken ribs beforeâthis is just spectacular bruising and your bodyâs usual bullshit of marking too easily.
âYouâre lucky,â Hoseok mutters, fingers tracing the edge of the bruise with a touch thatâs gentler than his voice. âAnother inch to the left and weâd be talking punctured lung.â
âBut weâre not.â
âBut weâre not,â he agrees, and his hand is still there, palm flat against your ribs, thumb resting just below your breast.
He hasnât moved it.
You swallow and watch his faceâthe way his eyes track across your skin like heâs reading something written in the violence. Thereâs a crease between his eyebrows that only shows up when heâs worried, and itâs definitely there now.
âIâm fine, doc.â
âYou came back bleeding.â
âBarely.â
âBleeding is bleeding.â His voice drops lower, rough around the edges. âAnd youâyou do this too often, Trouble.â
Itâs not an accusation.Â
It sounds more like something else, something heâs not supposed to say.
âHazard of the job,â you say lightly, testing the waters. âGood thing I have such an attentive physician.â
His eyes flick up to yours.
Oh.
Yeah, he caught that.
The air between you shiftsânot much, just enough to notice. Like the moment before lightning strikes when your hair stands on end and you know somethingâs about to change.
Hoseokâs hand is still on your ribs.
Youâre very aware of this fact.
âYour lip,â he says finally, pulling back to grab supplies, and you canât (or donât want to) explain why the loss of contact feels like cold water. âThat needs cleaning.â
He comes closer again, now standing between your knees where they dangle off the tableâs edge, and you have to tilt your head back slightly to maintain eye contact.Â
This is normal, just your usual medical procedure. Youâve done this a hundred times.
But, somehow, today it feels different.Â
The antiseptic stings when he dabs it across your split lip, and you hiss.
âHold still.â
âTrying.â
âTry harder.â
His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb resting against your cheek to keep your head steady, andâ
Fuck.
You blink.Â
His thumb moves, just slightly, a tiny stroke across your cheekbone that could be accidental.
Except you can see his face and thereâs nothing accidental about the way heâs looking at you right now.
âHoseokââ
âShh.â The cotton swab moves to the corner of your mouth, careful and meticulous. âAlmost done.â
But his hand doesnât leave your face.
You can smell him from hereâsandalwood and something clean, antiseptic mixing with cologne in a way that shouldnât work but does.Â
Itâs grounding. Safe. The kind of scent that makes you want to lean in andâ
Bad idea.
Terrible idea.
âThere.â He sets down the supplies but his hand is still on your face, and now his thumb traces your jawline in a touch thatâs definitely, absolutely not medical. âYou should be more careful.â
âWhereâs the fun in that?â
âFun.â He huffs something that might be a laugh except it sounds pained. âYouâre going to give me a heart attack one of these days, pip.â
The usual nickname lands soft, intimate.
Too intimate.
You watch something complicated cross his expressionâwant and restraint tangled up so tight you canât tell where one ends and the other begins.Â
His thumb is still moving against your jaw, this slow back-and-forth thatâs making it hard to think about anything except how easy it would be to close the distance between you.
How easy and how stupid.
âWe shouldnât,â he says quietly.
He doesnât move his hand.
âShouldnât what?â Your voice comes out a tad more brittle than intended.
His eyes drop to your mouthâjust for a second, but you catch itâbefore snapping back up.
âYou know what.â
Yeah.
You do.
âThen why are you still touching me?â
The question hangs there, dangerous and honest, and you watch him process it.Â
Watch the muscle in his jaw jump.Â
Watch his hand finally, finally drop away from your face like youâve burned him.
âGet dressed.â His voice is back to professional, clipped and distant. âYouâre cleared for light duty. Nothing strenuous for seventy-two hours.â
âHoseokââ
âIâll update your file.â Heâs already moving away, putting space between you like distance will fix whatever just almost happened. âTry not to get hit in the next week. Your body needs time to heal.â
You slide off the table, grabbing your shirt from the chair.Â
The fabric slides over your head and you catch it thenâsandalwood clinging to your skin where his hands had been, mixing with your own cherry cordial in a way that makes your chest tight.
Heâs at his desk now, back turned, typing something into the computer with a focus youâd say is forced.
You should leave.
Youâre going to leave.
âGoodnight, Hoseok.â
A pause.
Then, so quiet you almost miss it: âGoodnight.â
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.
âMedical storage room. 1400 hours. Need your dual-division expertise for equipment categorization.â
Itâs bullshit, obviously.
The medical wing doesnât need a Cyber-Seduction hybrid to organize bandages.Â
But itâs plausible enough that no one will question it, and thatâs probably the point.
You show up at two on the dot.
The storage room is tucked in the back corner of the medical wingâone of those spaces thatâs technically on the floor plan but rarely used except for overflow supplies and equipment too expensive to leave in the main inventory. Itâs cramped and windowless, lit by flickering fluorescents that make everything look slightly jaundiced.
Hoseokâs already there, standing among half-unpacked boxes with a tablet in hand and tension in every line of his body.
âHey.â
He looks up, and something in his expression cracks before smoothing over into professional neutrality.
âThanks for coming. This shouldnât take long.â
Liar.
You step inside and let the door click shut behind you.
The tension from three nights ago hasnât dissipated, makes the air feel different right upon entryâthicker, charged.Â
Heâs wearing his usual turtleneck under the white coat, and you know if you got close enough youâd smell sandalwood.
Youâre not getting close.
Youâre absolutely getting close.
âWhat am I looking at?â You move toward the nearest box, and the space forces you into proximity.
The storage room isnât big enough for two people to maintain distance.
âEquipment audit.â His voice is steady but thereâs an undercurrent you recognize now. âNeed to cross-reference inventory codes with the digital system. Some items are still under old classifications.â
âAnd you need Cyber for this becauseâŚ?â
âBecause the database is a mess and youâre better at pattern recognition than my staff.â
Valid reason.
Still bullshit.
You pull out your phone, opening the relevant database while he shuffles closer with the tablet.Â
His arm brushes yoursâbrief contact, could be accidentalâand you watch his jaw tighten.
Not accidental.
âOkay, so what am Iââ
His hand settles on your lower back.
Just rests there, warm through your shirt, like it belongs.
You forget how to finish the sentence.
âThis batch,â 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. âCross-reference with storage codes 4000 through 4200.â
âRight. Yeah. Thatâsââ You struggle to focus on the numbers. His hand hasnât moved from your back. âThatâs a lot of entries.â
âNarrow it down by date acquired. Anything older than two years is getting cycled out.â
You should step away.
And yet, neither of you moves.
Your fingers input the search parameters, but you canât 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.
âThere.â Your voice sounds foreign. âForty-three items flagged.â
âGood.â But he doesnât pull away to look at his tablet. Doesnât create distance. âWhat about subcategory medical-grade diagnostics?â
âHoseok.â
âHmm?â
âWhat are we doing?â
The question sits between you, heavy and unavoidable.
His hand flexes against your backânot pulling away, but pressing in slightly, like heâs grounding himself with the contact.
âInventory,â he says, but thereâs no conviction in it.
âRight. Inventory.â
You turn to face him, which is a mistake because now youâre 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 doesnât step back.
Neither do you.
âI want you,â you say quietly, letting your Seduction training color your voiceâsoft and deliberate and devastating. âYouâre aware of that, right?â
His breath catches audibly.
âDonâtââ
âDonât what?â You tilt your head slightly, studying his face. âDonât tell you the truth?â
âDonât make this impossible.â
âIt already is.â You shift closerânot much, just enough that your bodies touch. âHas been for weeks.â
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.
âWe canât.â
âSo you keep saying.â You let your fingers trail up his chest, feeling his heart hammering beneath the turtleneck. âBut youâre still touching me.â
âI shouldnât be.â
âBut you are.â
His jaw clenches, and you watch him fight with himselfârestraint 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 doesnât, until your mouth is a breath away from his.Â
Not touching.Â
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.
âYou want me?â Your breath ghosts across his lips.Â
The sound he makes is somewhere between a groan and a curse.
âYouâreââ His voice is wrecked. âYouâre playing a dangerous game, pip.â
âHmm?â You let your nose brush against his, feather-light. âAm I winning?â
âFuck.â
His free hand comes up to cup your face, and for a second you think heâs going to close the distance, going to kiss you and damn the consequencesâ
He doesnât.
Just holds you there, thumb stroking your cheekbone, forehead almost touching yours, breathing hard like heâs just run a marathon.
âLook at you,â he mutters, and his voice has gone rough and low. âSo tempting. Soâgod, youâre making it so hard to resist.â
âMaybe I donât want you to.â
âYou donât know what youâre asking for.â
âDonât I?â
Your lips are still barely a breath apart.Â
You can feel the heat of him, smell sandalwood mixing with your cherry cordial until the air is thick with it.Â
Can see the exact moment his control starts to splinter.
âI couldââ He cuts himself off, jaw clenching. âIf I started, I donât think I could stop.â
âGood.â
âThatâs notâwe canâtââ
âCanât?â
You shift just slightly, and your body presses against his.Â
The contact makes him inhale sharply.Â
âOr shouldnât?â
âBoth.â 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. âDefinitely both.â
âLiar.â
He makes a sound thatâs almost a laugh.
âYouâre dangerous.â
âSays the man with his hands all over me.â
âI should let go.â
âShould you?â
But neither of you moves.
Youâre pressed together nowâchest to chest, his thigh between yoursâand you can feel his heartbeat racing to match your own.Â
Can feel the way his fingers flex against your back like heâs fighting not to grab you harder.
âTell me to stop,â you whisper, breath ghosting across his lips.Â
âIââ His voice cracks. âPipââ
âTell me you donât want this.â
He canât.
You both know he canât.
His thumb traces your bottom lipânot quite touching, just the barest suggestion of contactâand his eyes are so dark you can barely see brown anymore.
âYou have no ideaââ He swallows hard. ââhow badly I want toââ
Footsteps in the corridor outside.
You both freeze.
The moment shatters.
Hoseokâs hands drop from your body like youâve burned him, and he steps back so fast he nearly hits the shelf behind him.Â
Puts three feet of space between you that feels like a chasm.
The footsteps pass by.
Keep going.
Fade.
âThis canât happen,â he says, and his voice is ragged. âWeâthis canâtââ
âHoseokââ
âNo.â He runs a hand through his hair, destroying the careful styling. âWe canât do this. Itâsâthe rules exist for a reason, and I canâtâI wonâtââ
âYou wonât what?â
âRuin you.â The words come out fierce. âI wonât be the reason you get hurt.â
You stare at himâat the wild look in his eyes, the heaving chest, the white-knuckled grip he has on the shelf behind him like itâs the only thing keeping him upright.
âWhat if Iâm willing to risk it?â
âWell Iâm not.â But his voice cracks on the words. âI canâtâyou need to go.â
âThe inventoryââ
âFuck the inventory.â He wonât look at you now. âJust go. Please.â
You should argue.
Should push.
But something in his voice stops youâdesperation mixed with genuine fear, like heâs hanging on by a thread.
âOkay,â you say quietly. âOkay.â
You head for the door.
Your handâs on the handle when his voice stops you.
âWait.â
You turn back.
Heâs still standing there, gripping that shelf, looking completely wrecked.
âDonâtââ He swallows hard. âDonât think this means I donâtâthat Iâm notââ
âI know.â
You do know.
Thatâs 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 heâs probably dealing with cherry cordial on his coat.
The almost is becoming unbearable.
Somethingâs going to break soon.
Itâs past two in the morning.
You shouldnât 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.Â
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 everywhereâdiscarded medical supplies not yet cleared away, monitoring equipment still beeping softly, disorder that only happens when people are fighting to save lives and canât be bothered with tidiness.
You find him in his office.
Heâs standing at the window with his back to the door, still wearing his surgical scrubs under the white coat.Â
Thereâs blood on his sleevesânot his, you know, never hisâand his shoulders carry the kind of tension that speaks to hours of adrenaline finally crashing.
âHoseok?â
He doesnât turn around.
âYou should be asleep.â
âSo should you.â
âIâm working.â
âYouâre standing in the dark staring at nothing.â
His jaw tightensâyou can see it in profileâbut he doesnât argue.
You step inside and let the door close softly behind you.Â
The office is dim, lit only by the glow from the medical wing beyond and the city lights filtering through the window.Â
It evokes a sense of disconnect from reality, like youâve both stepped outside normal time where rules donât apply.Â
âWas it bad?â
âItâs always bad.â His voice is caustic, scraped raw. âBut yeah. It was bad.â
You move closer, laggy and chary like he might bolt if you make sudden movements.Â
âEmergency?â
âYeah.â
âAre theyââ
âStable. For now.âÂ
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.Â
âWhat are you doing here, pip?â
âChecking on you.â
âIâm fine.â
âLiar.â
Something flickers across his expressionâfrustration or maybe relief that someone sees through his bullshit.
âGo back to your quarters, pip. Iâm notâI donât have the energy for this right now.â
âFor what?â
âFor pretending.â The admission comes out harsh. âFor acting like Iâm notâlike weâre notââ
He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.
You take another step closer.
âHow long have you been awake?â
âI donât know. Twenty hours? More?â He rubs his eyes. âLost count somewhere around the third transfusion.â
âYou need to rest.â
âI needââ His voice splinters. âI donât know what I need.â
Liar.
You both know what he needs.
âHoseokââ
âDonât.â He holds up a hand like heâs physically stopping you. âDonâtâI canâtâmy control is shot to hell right now and if youââ
âIf I what?â
His eyes meet yours, and thereâs something wild in them.Â
Desperate.
âIf you keep looking at me like that, Iâm going to do something we canât take back.â
Your heart hammers.
âMaybe I want you to.â
âFuck.â The word comes out broken. âDonât say that. DonâtâIâm trying to do the right thing here and youâre making it impossible.â
âThe right thing,â you close the remaining distance between you, âis standing here alone in the dark, falling apart, because god forbid you let someone care about you?â
âThatâs notââ
âYou were scared tonight.â Itâs not a question. âI can see it all over you.â
His expression fractures.
âYeah,â he admits quietly. âYeah, I was fucking terrified. And I canâtâIâm so tired of being scared. Of pretending I donâtâthat you donâtââ
He doesnât finish.
Doesnât need to.
âWe shouldnât,â he says, but it sounds hollow now. Defeated.
âI know.â
âThe rules exist for a reason.â
âI know that too.â
Neither of you moves away.
The office is so quiet you can hear both your breathingâhis ragged and uneven, yours picking up speed to match.Â
Can smell sandalwood and antiseptic and underneath it something raw and honest that youâve never caught before.
Fear.
Want.
Surrender.
âIf we do thisââ His voice drops to almost nothing. âIf Iâthereâs no going back, pip.â
âI donât want to go back.â
He makes a sound thatâs half-laugh, half-breaking.
âIâm serious.â
âGood.â
Thatâs what does it.
That single word that cracks whateverâs left of his restraint, and then heâs crossing the space between you and his mouth is on yours and itâs nothing like the almost-moments before.
This is desperate.
This is surrender.
His hands cup your face like youâre something precious, and he kisses you like heâs drowning and youâre air.Â
Thereâs no gentleness, no careful testingâjust 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.
âFuck,â he breathes between kisses. âFuck, Iâve wantedâso longââ
âYeah,â you manage. âMe too.â
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.
âTell meââ He pulls back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide. âTell me you want this. I need to hear you say it.â
âI want this.â You meet his eyes. âWant you. Please.â
The âpleaseâ breaks something in him.
He walks you backward toward the examination table in the corner of his officeâthe one he keeps for quick checks, private assessmentsâand lifts you onto it with an ease that makes heat pool low in your stomach.
âIf weâre doing thisââ His voice is wrecked. âIf Iâmâgod, I canât believe Iâmââ
You pull him between your legs, and his words cut off in a groan.
âHoseok.â Your hands find the hem of his scrub top. âStop thinking.â
âCanât.â But heâs already helping you pull it off, revealing skin and muscle and the kind of body youâve imagined too many times to count. âThis isâweâre in the medical wing. Anyone couldââ
âNo oneâs here.â You trace your fingers down his chest, watching his abs contract. âJust us.â
âJust us,â 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.
âCan Iââ
âYes.â
He strips it off you, then your pants, slowly but surely, until youâre sitting on his examination table in just your underwear and heâs looking at you like youâve destroyed him.
âLook at you,â he breathes. âSo perfect. SoâI don't deserve this.â
âShut up.â
He almost smiles.
Then his hands are on youâsliding up your thighs, over your hips, ghosting across your ribs with a touch thatâs way too honest and way too imbued in want.Â
And when his thumbs finally brush the underside of your breasts, you arch into it.
âSensitive,â he murmurs, taking inventory of your responses like theyâre precious. âGood to know.â
âHoseokââ
âShh.â His mouth finds your neck, kissing and biting a path to your shoulder. âIâm taking care of you.â
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.Â
When his thumb brushes over your nipple through the fabric of your bra, you make a sound thatâs almost embarrassing.
He does it again just to hear it.
âYou sound so pretty,â he says against your skin. âGoing to sound even prettier when I make you cum.â
The words send heat straight between your legs.
âConfident.â
âIâm very good at my job.â He palms your breast properly now, and you arch into his hand. âAnd right now, my job is making you feel good.â
Your bra comes off next, and then his mouth is on youâtongue circling your nipple before sucking it into his mouthâand your head falls back with a moan.
âThatâs it,â he encourages, switching to the other side. âLet me hear you.â
His free hand slides between your thighs, pressing against the damp fabric there, and he groans.
âFuck, youâre so wet already.â
âYour fault.â
âYeah.â He sounds devastated by it. âYeah, it is.â
Your underwear joins the growing pile of clothes, and then his fingers are where you need them mostâsliding through wetness, finding your clit with relative easeâwhich honestly speaks to medical knowledge put to very unprofessional use.
The first touch, inevitably, makes you jolt.
âEasy,â he soothes, circling slowly. âIâve got you.â
He does.
His fingers work you with careful attention, reading every single one of your tiny reactions to figure out exactly what you need.Â
Then he slides one inside you, and your hips buck.
âMore?â
âYesâpleaseââ
He adds a second finger, curling them just right, and the sensation makes you gasp.Â
His thumb stays on your clit, circling in maddening patterns while his fingers work inside you.
âThatâs it,â he murmurs. âTake it. Youâre doing so well for me, pip. Good darling.â
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 bellyâ
He stops.
âWhatââ
âNot yet, darling.â His voice is rough but controlled. âNot until I say.â
âHoseokââ
âTrust me.â He kisses you, slow and deep, fingers still inside you but not moving. âItâll be better. I promise.â
You believe him.
He starts anewâslower this time, building you up slowly once more. Kissing you, letting you get near the precipice again before heâs stopping his motions.
âPlease,â you finally break. âPlease, I needââ
âI know what you need.â His free hand cups your face. âBut weâre not there yet.â
He pulls his fingers out, and you actually whimper at the loss.
Then heâs stripping off his remaining clothes, and you get your first look at him fully naked andâ
Fuck.
Heâs beautiful. Heâs breathtakingly beautiful, all golden glistening skin, and his cock is hard and flushed and exactly as perfect as the rest of him.
âLike what you see?â
âShut up.â
He grinsâthe first real smile youâve seen all nightâand pulls you to the edge of the table.
Then he pauses.
âI donâtâshit, I donât have anything here.â His jaw clenches in frustration as he looks over the area. âThe condoms are in the main supply closet and Iâm notâI canâtââ
âIâm on birth control,â you say. âAnd Iâm clean, remember? Last medical check included testing.â
âIâm clean too.â His voice drops. âBut if youâre not comfortableââ
âI want you.â You meet his eyes. âLike this. Please.â
He groans.
âYouâre so unfair.â
âGood thing you like it.â
His laugh is breathless.
Then heâs lining himself up, the head of his cock pressing against you, andâ
âWait.â He leans his forehead against yours. âYou okay with this? Really?â
âYes.â You wrap your legs around his waist, look into his eyes. âYes, I am. Please, fuck me.â
He doesnât need to be told twice.
The first press inside is patient, giving you time to adjust.Â
Heâs bigger than his fingers, stretching you in a way that borders on too much, and you watch his face the entire timeâthe way his expression goes slack with pleasure, the way his breath comes in short gasps.
âGood?â he grits out.
You nod quietly, watching the way he sinks in.Â
âSo good. More.â
He indulges, inch by agonizing inch, until heâs fully seated inside you and youâre both breathing hard.
âFuck,â he breathes. âYou feelâI canâtâso perfectââ
âMove, please.â
And moving, he does.Â
Itâs slow at first, careful, but you can see him struggling to maintain control.Â
His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, and when you clench around him, he makes a sound thatâs almost pained.
âYouâreâdonât do thatâtrying to last hereââ
âDonât want you to last,â you manage. âWant you to lose it.â
âFuck.â
The next thrust is harder, deeper, and you cry out at the sensation.Â
âThatâs it,â he encourages. âTake it. Youâre taking me so well, darling.â
Your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders as he fucks you meaner now, each thrust sending sparks through your nervous system.Â
The examination table creaks under you, and somewhere in the back of your mind you remember youâre in his office, in the medical wing, where anyone could walk inâ
It just makes it hotter.
âLay back,â he says suddenly.
You do, and he follows you down, bracing himself on his hands beside your head. This position is differentâmore intimate, nowhere to hide as he looks down at you.
âGive me your hands.â
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 mercyâ
âOh godââ
âYeah.â His voice is wrecked. âYou like that? Like me holding you down?â
âYesâfuckâyesââ
His fingers lace through yours, and somehow thatâs even more intimate than the sex itself.
Holding hands while he fucks you, faces inches apart, breathing the same air.
âIâve wanted this,â he confesses, words spilling out unchecked. âWanted you. So long. Every time you came to medical, every time you smiled at me, every time you called me those ridiculous nicknamesââ
âHoseokââ
âYouâre so addictive.â He leans down to bite your shoulder, not gentle, and you gasp. âCanât get enough. Never going to get enough.â
The devotional quality in his voice, the raw honestyâitâs 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.Â
See the way his pupils dilate, the way his breathing goes ragged.
âYou smell so good,â he groans. âSmell likeâfuckâlike something I should stay away from but canâtââ
His rhythm becomes more erratic, less controlled, and you can tell heâs close.Â
Can feel the way his cock twitches inside you, the way his grip on your hands tightens.
âPlease,â you beg. âPlease let meâI needââ
âNot yet.â But his voice is strained. âLittle longer, darling. Want to make this last.â
âCanâtâI canâtââ
âYes you can.â He releases one of your hands to reach between your bodies, finding your clit. âCome on. Be good for me.â
You try, god you try so hard to hold it for him, but youâre right there on the edge, muscles tensing, breath coming in gaspsâ
âNow,â he finally says. âCome for me. Let me feel you.â
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.
âFuckâfuck, Iâmââ His rhythm stutters. âIâm gonnaâwhereââ
âStomach,â you gasp. âPull outââ
He does, barely, and then heâs comingâhot across your stomach, striping your skinâand 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 youâve done.
âHey.â His voice is soft, grounding. âYou with me?â
âYeah,â you manage. âIâm here.â
âGood.â He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering. âThatâs good. Just breathe, okay? Iâve got you.â
Then his medical training kicks in, but gentle, always so gentle when it concerns you.
âHold still,â he says, voice tender. âLet me take care of this.â
Heâs 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 heâs thorough about it, making sure your skin is completely clean before tossing the gauze in the medical waste bin.
âOkay?â he asks softly, hand coming to rest on your hip. âDid I hurt you?â
âNo.â Your voice is steadier now. âNo, you didnât hurt me.â
âPromise?â
âPromise.â
He lets out a breath he seems to have been holding.
âGood. Thatâsâthatâs good.â His thumb strokes your hip absently. âWater. You need water. Donât move.â
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.
âDrink.â
You take it, but your hands are still shaky enough that he notices.
âHere.â He guides the bottle to your lips, one hand supporting the back of your head. âSlow sips. There you go.â
The water is cold and perfect, and you didnât realize how thirsty you were until it hits your tongue.Â
You drink half the bottle before pulling back.
âMore,â he says gently.
âIâm okayââ
âHumor me.â His voice is soft but firm. âYou need to rehydrate. Just a little more.â
You drink again, and he watches with that attention to detail thatâs so distinctive of himâthe doctor who notices everything, who makes sure his patients are properly cared for.
Except youâre not just a patient anymore.
And heâs not just your doctor.
When youâve finished enough to satisfy him, he sets the bottle aside and helps you sit up properly, moving with you so you donât have to do it alone.Â
Then heâs pulling you against his chest, arms coming around you like he needs the contact as much as you do.
âYou okay?â His voice rumbles through his chest. âReally?â
âYeah.â You let yourself relax into him, feeling his heartbeat start to slow. âAre you okay?â
He laughs, but itâs shaky.
âI donât know.â His hand comes up to stroke your hair, slow and soothing. âI justâwe justââ
âI know.â
âAnd I donâtââ His voice stills. âI donât regret it. I should, but I donât.â
âMe neither.â
He presses his face into your hair, breathing you inâcherry cordial mixing with sandalwood.
âWe could get in serious trouble.â
âI know.â
âAnd I still donât regret it.â He pulls back just enough to cup your face, tilting it up so you have to look at him. âI donât regret you.â
The intensity in his eyes makes your chest tight. âHoseokââ
âI need you to know that.â His thumbs stroke your cheekbones. âWhatever happens next, whatever we have to deal withâI donât regret this. I donât regret us.â
âNeither do I.â
His smile is small but genuine, and he leans in to kiss youâsoft and sweet and nothing like the desperate kisses from before. This is careful. Reverent.Â
A promise.
When he pulls back, his hand finds yours, lacing your fingers together.
âWeâre going to have to talk about this,â he says quietly. âAbout what it means. What we do now.â
âI know.â
âThe rulesââ
âStill exist.â You squeeze his hand. âBut so does this.â
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
no i did not forget i wrote and posted a somnophilia fanfic i just discovered clicker training some days ago and itâs now my favorite thing ever i will not be taking questions
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
Iâm 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! Iâm running an anonymous poll, and Iâd love for you to vote honestly.
The question:
If you could choose ONE of my fics to receive consistent weekly updatesâhypotheticallyâwhich one would you pick?
This is just for organizing and understanding expectations. It does not mean the winner will actually get weekly updates; itâs only a way to create a realistic priority list. Think of it like a fun âwhat ifâ scenario to help me see which stories youâre 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. đ
If you could choose ONE of my fics to receive consistent weekly updatesâhypotheticallyâwhich one would you pick?
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.
âž masterlist | moon dreams masterpost
rating ; 18+ | mature
genre ; bsf to lovers, somnophilia kink, smut, angst, porn with plot
word count ; 3k
warnings ;Â emotional confrontation, crying/breakdown, explicit discussion of previous sexual acts, yoongiâs 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
âď¸ rundown ; You've always shared everything with your best friendâbeds, 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 partedâhe starts thinking. What if you meant it? What if he tried⌠just once?
a/n ; I'm not gonna lieâI'm a little emotional writing this note. This series became something I didn't fully anticipate when I started. What began as âlet me explore consensual somnophilia in a psychologically realistic wayâ 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 âwe don't talk about itâ 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. Thatâs why her lines at the end were very important. "I've had that kink since before I knew what kinks were"âthat'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 âoh. OH. That thing I've been thinking about since I was fourteen? That's a thing. That has a name.â 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 thatâs why itâs 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 rejectionâshe 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. Itâs beautiful. Itâs also devastating. Itâs a Kiki fic.
The ending linesâ"It feels like kissing the moon. It feels like dreaming."âare my favorite thing I've written for this series. I wonât 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:Â 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 meaningâand I can only hope I gave you that.
Until the next unhinged project. âĄ
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 didnât spend the night inside you, loving you in the only way youâd 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.
âFuck,â you mumble, walking out, voice thick with sleep from last night. âMy head.â
âCoffeeâs almost ready,â he says without turning around. Neutral. Casual.
Like heâs not memorizing the sound of your voice when itâs rough from sleep.
Like he doesnât know what you taste like.
âYouâre an angel.â
Not an angel. Far from it.
Angels donât fuck their unconscious best friends and spend the night memorizing the way they move in sleep.
Angels donât 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 youâll never know.
The way you asked him never to tell you.
Youâre 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 heâd never been allowed to touch before. Skin that still holds the phantom warmth of his hands.
âYou look like shit,â he says, setting the coffee and painkillers on the coffee table.
âFeel worse.â You dry-swallow the pills and chase them with coffee, making a face at the bitterness. âThanks.â
He sits on the edge of the couch, careful to keep distance between your bodies. Not because he doesnât want to touch youâhe wants to touch you so much it makes his teeth ache. But because touching you while youâre awake feels like a different kind of violation now.
Now that he knows what you feel like.
âBetter?â he asks when youâve finished half the mug.
âGetting there.â You lean back against his cushions, studying his face with sleep-heavy eyes. âYou look tired.â
Because he didnât sleep. Couldnât sleep after what heâd done.
Just lay there, trying to process the fact that heâd crossed the final line youâd drawn for him.
That heâd become exactly what youâd asked him to become, and hated himself for loving it.
âCouldnât sleep.â
âWhy not?â
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 youâd felt him moving inside you, even unconsciously.
Because he loves you and you can only accept that love when youâre not awake to know about it.
âMattress is uncomfortable,â he lies.
You tilt your head, considering. Thereâs something calculating in your expression that makes him immediately wary. The same look you get when youâre about to ask him something he doesnât want to answer.
âYoongi.â
âWhat.â
âDid you fuck me?â
The question hits him like ice water. Direct. Blunt. Exactly the kind of thing youâd never ask if you werenât fishing for a specific answer.
If you werenât hoping heâd say yes.
âYou know I canât answer that,â 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.
âRight. The rules.â
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 youâre gearing up for a fight, and Yoongi has no idea why.
âYou didnât, right?â you say, voice getting sharper. âI even wore the stupid thong and you didnât evenââ
You cut yourself off, but not before he hears what youâre really saying.
Not before he understands what the red lace was actually about.
What it was always about.
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âNothing. Forget it.â
âNo, what do you mean you wore it forââ
âForget I said anything.â
But he canât forget. Canât ignore the way youâre looking at him now, like heâs let you down somehow.
Like you wanted him to touch you and heâs 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.
âWhy donât you like me?â you ask suddenly, voice cracking slightly. âSeriously. How obvious do I have to be?â
The question stops him cold.
Because thereâs no universe where you should be asking him that. No reality where you should think he doesnât want you when heâs been wanting you so badly itâs been destroying him from the inside out.
When heâs been taking what you offered him because he couldnât help himself.
âWhat are you talking about?â
âI tried to make it so easy for you.â Your voice is rising now, frustration bleeding into anger. âSo that you wouldnât even have to feel guilty. You could do whatever you wanted and weâd never have to talk about it and you seriously canât even look at me like something else apart from your best friend?â
He sees the way your eyes go red-rimmed.
Then a tear falls.
Then another.
And now youâre 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 youâve been thinking about this. Planning for it. Hoping for it.
âI donât understandââ
âOf course you donât understand!â Youâre fully shouting now, coffee mug forgotten as you gesture wildly. âBecause youâre so fucking dense when it comes to anything that isnât spelled out for you! Iâve been throwing myself at you for years and you act like Iâm just your annoying best friend who crashes on your couch!â
âYou are my best friendââ
âI donât want to be just your best friend!â The words rip out of you like theyâve been trapped behind your ribs, desperate to escape. âI havenât 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, youâd finallyââ
âStop.â
âStop what? Telling the truth? Iâm done pretending this is normal. Iâm done acting like I donât want you toââ
âStop.â His voice is rougher now, something breaking open in his chest. âJust stop talking.â
âWhy? Does it make you uncomfortable? Good. Maybe now you know how Iâve felt for the past three years watching youââ
âI did fuck you.â
The words come out like shattered glass, cutting him on the way out.
Cutting you too, from the way you go completely still.
âWhat?â
âI did fuck you.â He canât look at you. Canât see your face when he tells you what he is. âLast night. While you were sleeping.â
Your breath catches.
âI fucked you with a condom because I didnât want to cross more lines than I have already crossed. But I considered not using one. I didnât want to leave evidence. Didnât want you to wake up and know what Iâd done to you because you told me you wanted to remain ignorant and I wanted to respect thatââ
âYoongiââ
ââand I hated myself every fucking minute of it,â he continues, words pouring out like blood from a wound. âBecause I liked it. Because you felt so perfect and you made those sounds in your sleep and I couldnât stop myself from wanting more.â
Youâre staring at him now, shock written across your face.
âYou want to know whatâs wrong with you? Nothing. You want to know whatâs wrong with me? Everything. You asked me to touch you and I became a fucking monster who gets off on unconscious consent.â
âItâs notââ
âIt is!â Heâs shouting now too, everything pouring out like moonlight breaking loose through a storm-cracked sky. âYou were vulnerable and I used your body like my personal toy!â
He swallows, words choking out on his throat.
But they burst out anyway, because thereâs only so long a man can survive in the orbit of the moon.
âI considered fucking you raw, Manwol. I did. I thought about it. What kind of fucked-up person does that?â
Silence.
Long enough that he starts to wonder if you heard him.
Long enough for him to realize heâs about to lose you forever.
He looks up then, meets your eyes, sees the shock and hurt and something else he canât name.
âYouâve poisoned me,â words tumble out, cracking. âYouâve ruined me. Youâve made me into a piece of shit who enjoys taking advantage of his unconscious best friend, and I canâtâI canât even feel bad about it because you asked me to do it.â
The tears come then, hot and angry and shameful.
Because heâs 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 heâs always been.
âYou asked me to touch you however I wanted,â he says through the tears. âSo 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.â
He struggles to shallow around the knot lodged in his fucking throat.
âAnd I enjoyed it. Thatâs the part I canâtâI fuckingâenjoyed it.â He chokes. âEveryâevery second of it. Your mouth, your body, the way you looked peaceful and trustingâI got off on it, Manwol. I wanted more. I want more.â
Youâre crying too now, but differently. Quieter. Like youâre processing what he just told you.
Like youâre trying to figure out if this changes everything or nothing at all.
âAnd the worst part,â he continues, âthe absolute worst part is that I love you. Iâve been in love with you for years and I canât tell you because someone whoâs in love with someone doesnât 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?â
âIt wasnât rape.â Your voice is small, broken, but firm. âIt wasnât rape, Yoongi.â
âFelt like it.â
âWell it wasnât.â You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand, makeup smearing. âI consented. Itâs 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 didnât want to know. But I wanted you to do it.â
âYou wanted me to want you.â
âI wanted you to have me while I sleep, Yoongi.â You break. âIâve had this kink for ages. And youâre the only man Iâd 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.â
âWhy?â
âBecause Iâm in love with you too, you fucking idiot.â
The words land right across his chest.
Because thereâs no way you just said that.
No way youâre 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.
âNo, youâre not.â
âYes, I am.â
âYou canât be.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause I just told you Iââ
âYou told me you did exactly what I asked you to do.â You lean forward, close enough that he can smell the coffee on your breath. âI wanted to explore my kink safely, with my comfort person, and you provided.â
âI told you Iâm a monster.â
âYou told me youâre human.â
He stares at you. At your tear-stained face and swollen eyes and the way youâre looking at him like he hasnât just confessed to being everything wrong with the world.
Like you still want him, even knowing what heâs done.
What heâs capable of.
âI donât understand.â
âIâve had that kink since before I knew what kinks were,â you say quietly. âBut Iâve never trusted anyone enough to ask for it before. Never felt safe enough to be that vulnerable with someone.â
âBut you trusted me.â
âI trust you, present tense.â You squeeze his fingers. âAnd you gave me exactly what I needed. What Iâve been needing for years.â
âI used you.â
âI asked you to use me.â
âI could have hurt you.â
âBut you didnât.â Youâre crying again, but softer now. âYou were careful with me. I trusted you with my fantasy and you helped me.â
He doesnât know what to say to that. Doesnât know how to process the idea that maybe he didnât ruin everything. Maybe he didnât become a monster.
Maybe he just became what you needed him to become.
âI love you too,â you say again, like you can see him struggling to believe it. âIâve 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 didnât do anything stupid.â
âThat doesnât meanââ
âIt means Iâve been in love with you for three years and too scared to tell you because I didnât think you could want someone as fucked up as me.â
âYouâre not fucked up.â
âI asked my best friend to help me with my weirdest kink and made up a rule because I couldnât handle the possibility of rejection.â
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.
âSo weâre both fucked up,â he says finally.
âYeah.â
âAnd weâre both in love.â
âApparently.â
âAnd I did fuck you last night.â
âThank god.â You laugh, watery and broken but real. âI was starting to think I wasnât pretty enough or something.â
âYouâre the prettiest thing Iâve ever seen.â
âThing?â
âPerson. Woman. Sorry, figure of speech.â
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 youâve always belonged there.
âIâm sorry,â he says into your hair.
âFor what?â
âFor making you think I didnât want you.â
âIâm sorry for making you think you were a monster for wanting me.â
âWeâre idiots.â
âThe biggest idiots.â
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 youâve been carrying for too long.
âSo what happens now?â you ask eventually.
âI donât know.â
âCan I stay?â
âYouâre always staying.â
âNo, I mean stay. With you. Like this.â
Like this. Like someone who loves him and knows he loves her back. Like someone who doesnât have to sleep alone anymore, who doesnât have to pretend she doesnât want him when sheâs awake.
Like someone he can touch whenever he wants, however he wants, with full knowledge and consent and love.
âYeah,â he says. âYou can stay.â
âGood.â You pull back to look at him, eyes still red but smiling now. âBecause I wasnât planning on leaving anyway.â
âPresumptuous.â
âI know what I want.â
âAnd whatâs that?â
âYou. Awake and asleep. Conscious and unconscious. All the ways youâll let me have you.â
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.
âAll the ways,â he agrees.
âGood.â
You kiss him then, soft and salt-sweet from tears. The first kiss youâve shared while youâre both awake, both aware, both choosing it.
It tastes like forgiveness.
Like coming home.
Like the beginning of something that doesnât have to happen in secret anymore.
When you pull away, youâre both smiling through your tears.
âI love you,â he says, because he can say it now.
Because you know and you love him back and he doesnât have to whisper it to your sleeping form anymore.
âI love you too.â
âEven knowing what I did?â
âEspecially knowing what you did.â
And maybe that makes you both a little fucked up. But youâre fucked up together now, which seems like the best possible outcome.
The only outcome that matters.
âCome here,â you say, tugging him back toward the cushions.
âWe just got up.â
âSo? We have three years to make up for.â
âThree years is a lot.â
âGood thing we have time.â
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 youâve always belonged.
âCan I ask you something?â you say against his throat.
âAnything.â
âNext time you fuck me while Iâm sleepingââ
âThereâs going to be a next time?â
âOh, thereâs definitely going to be a next time. And a time after that. And probably a time after that. I wasnât talking smack when I said I have a somnophilia kink, Yoongi.â
âBut next time we talk about it afterwards.â
You smile. âYeah, we do.â
The thought makes him hard already, which should probably be embarrassing but isnât. Not when youâre looking at him like you want to devour him.
Like you want him to devour you right back.
âWhatâs your question?â
âCan you wake me up at the end? So I can see how you look when you come?â
The request sends fire straight through his veins, because fuck. Fuck, youâre perfect.
âI can do that.â
âGood.â You press a kiss to his throat, soft and promising. âBecause I want to remember it this time.â
âRemember what?â
âHow it feels when you love me.â
And thatâs exactly what it was, he realizes. Not using you. Not taking advantage.
Loving you.
The only way youâd 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.
âI can show you that awake too,â he says.
âRight now?â
âRight now.â
And when he rolls you beneath him, kissing you deep and desperate and wide awake, it feels like kissing the 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.
âž masterlist | moon dreams masterpost
rating ; 18+ | mature
genre ; bsf to lovers, somnophilia kink, smut, angst, porn with plot
word count ; 3k
warnings ;Â emotional confrontation, crying/breakdown, explicit discussion of previous sexual acts, yoongiâs 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
âď¸ rundown ; You've always shared everything with your best friendâbeds, 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 partedâhe starts thinking. What if you meant it? What if he tried⌠just once?
a/n ; I'm not gonna lieâI'm a little emotional writing this note. This series became something I didn't fully anticipate when I started. What began as âlet me explore consensual somnophilia in a psychologically realistic wayâ 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 âwe don't talk about itâ 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. Thatâs why her lines at the end were very important. "I've had that kink since before I knew what kinks were"âthat'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 âoh. OH. That thing I've been thinking about since I was fourteen? That's a thing. That has a name.â 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 thatâs why itâs 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 rejectionâshe 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. Itâs beautiful. Itâs also devastating. Itâs a Kiki fic.
The ending linesâ"It feels like kissing the moon. It feels like dreaming."âare my favorite thing I've written for this series. I wonât 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:Â 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 meaningâand I can only hope I gave you that.
Until the next unhinged project. âĄ
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 didnât spend the night inside you, loving you in the only way youâd 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.
âFuck,â you mumble, walking out, voice thick with sleep from last night. âMy head.â
âCoffeeâs almost ready,â he says without turning around. Neutral. Casual.
Like heâs not memorizing the sound of your voice when itâs rough from sleep.
Like he doesnât know what you taste like.
âYouâre an angel.â
Not an angel. Far from it.
Angels donât fuck their unconscious best friends and spend the night memorizing the way they move in sleep.
Angels donât 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 youâll never know.
The way you asked him never to tell you.
Youâre 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 heâd never been allowed to touch before. Skin that still holds the phantom warmth of his hands.
âYou look like shit,â he says, setting the coffee and painkillers on the coffee table.
âFeel worse.â You dry-swallow the pills and chase them with coffee, making a face at the bitterness. âThanks.â
He sits on the edge of the couch, careful to keep distance between your bodies. Not because he doesnât want to touch youâhe wants to touch you so much it makes his teeth ache. But because touching you while youâre awake feels like a different kind of violation now.
Now that he knows what you feel like.
âBetter?â he asks when youâve finished half the mug.
âGetting there.â You lean back against his cushions, studying his face with sleep-heavy eyes. âYou look tired.â
Because he didnât sleep. Couldnât sleep after what heâd done.
Just lay there, trying to process the fact that heâd crossed the final line youâd drawn for him.
That heâd become exactly what youâd asked him to become, and hated himself for loving it.
âCouldnât sleep.â
âWhy not?â
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 youâd felt him moving inside you, even unconsciously.
Because he loves you and you can only accept that love when youâre not awake to know about it.
âMattress is uncomfortable,â he lies.
You tilt your head, considering. Thereâs something calculating in your expression that makes him immediately wary. The same look you get when youâre about to ask him something he doesnât want to answer.
âYoongi.â
âWhat.â
âDid you fuck me?â
The question hits him like ice water. Direct. Blunt. Exactly the kind of thing youâd never ask if you werenât fishing for a specific answer.
If you werenât hoping heâd say yes.
âYou know I canât answer that,â 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.
âRight. The rules.â
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 youâre gearing up for a fight, and Yoongi has no idea why.
âYou didnât, right?â you say, voice getting sharper. âI even wore the stupid thong and you didnât evenââ
You cut yourself off, but not before he hears what youâre really saying.
Not before he understands what the red lace was actually about.
What it was always about.
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âNothing. Forget it.â
âNo, what do you mean you wore it forââ
âForget I said anything.â
But he canât forget. Canât ignore the way youâre looking at him now, like heâs let you down somehow.
Like you wanted him to touch you and heâs 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.
âWhy donât you like me?â you ask suddenly, voice cracking slightly. âSeriously. How obvious do I have to be?â
The question stops him cold.
Because thereâs no universe where you should be asking him that. No reality where you should think he doesnât want you when heâs been wanting you so badly itâs been destroying him from the inside out.
When heâs been taking what you offered him because he couldnât help himself.
âWhat are you talking about?â
âI tried to make it so easy for you.â Your voice is rising now, frustration bleeding into anger. âSo that you wouldnât even have to feel guilty. You could do whatever you wanted and weâd never have to talk about it and you seriously canât even look at me like something else apart from your best friend?â
He sees the way your eyes go red-rimmed.
Then a tear falls.
Then another.
And now youâre 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 youâve been thinking about this. Planning for it. Hoping for it.
âI donât understandââ
âOf course you donât understand!â Youâre fully shouting now, coffee mug forgotten as you gesture wildly. âBecause youâre so fucking dense when it comes to anything that isnât spelled out for you! Iâve been throwing myself at you for years and you act like Iâm just your annoying best friend who crashes on your couch!â
âYou are my best friendââ
âI donât want to be just your best friend!â The words rip out of you like theyâve been trapped behind your ribs, desperate to escape. âI havenât 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, youâd finallyââ
âStop.â
âStop what? Telling the truth? Iâm done pretending this is normal. Iâm done acting like I donât want you toââ
âStop.â His voice is rougher now, something breaking open in his chest. âJust stop talking.â
âWhy? Does it make you uncomfortable? Good. Maybe now you know how Iâve felt for the past three years watching youââ
âI did fuck you.â
The words come out like shattered glass, cutting him on the way out.
Cutting you too, from the way you go completely still.
âWhat?â
âI did fuck you.â He canât look at you. Canât see your face when he tells you what he is. âLast night. While you were sleeping.â
Your breath catches.
âI fucked you with a condom because I didnât want to cross more lines than I have already crossed. But I considered not using one. I didnât want to leave evidence. Didnât want you to wake up and know what Iâd done to you because you told me you wanted to remain ignorant and I wanted to respect thatââ
âYoongiââ
ââand I hated myself every fucking minute of it,â he continues, words pouring out like blood from a wound. âBecause I liked it. Because you felt so perfect and you made those sounds in your sleep and I couldnât stop myself from wanting more.â
Youâre staring at him now, shock written across your face.
âYou want to know whatâs wrong with you? Nothing. You want to know whatâs wrong with me? Everything. You asked me to touch you and I became a fucking monster who gets off on unconscious consent.â
âItâs notââ
âIt is!â Heâs shouting now too, everything pouring out like moonlight breaking loose through a storm-cracked sky. âYou were vulnerable and I used your body like my personal toy!â
He swallows, words choking out on his throat.
But they burst out anyway, because thereâs only so long a man can survive in the orbit of the moon.
âI considered fucking you raw, Manwol. I did. I thought about it. What kind of fucked-up person does that?â
Silence.
Long enough that he starts to wonder if you heard him.
Long enough for him to realize heâs about to lose you forever.
He looks up then, meets your eyes, sees the shock and hurt and something else he canât name.
âYouâve poisoned me,â words tumble out, cracking. âYouâve ruined me. Youâve made me into a piece of shit who enjoys taking advantage of his unconscious best friend, and I canâtâI canât even feel bad about it because you asked me to do it.â
The tears come then, hot and angry and shameful.
Because heâs 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 heâs always been.
âYou asked me to touch you however I wanted,â he says through the tears. âSo 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.â
He struggles to shallow around the knot lodged in his fucking throat.
âAnd I enjoyed it. Thatâs the part I canâtâI fuckingâenjoyed it.â He chokes. âEveryâevery second of it. Your mouth, your body, the way you looked peaceful and trustingâI got off on it, Manwol. I wanted more. I want more.â
Youâre crying too now, but differently. Quieter. Like youâre processing what he just told you.
Like youâre trying to figure out if this changes everything or nothing at all.
âAnd the worst part,â he continues, âthe absolute worst part is that I love you. Iâve been in love with you for years and I canât tell you because someone whoâs in love with someone doesnât 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?â
âIt wasnât rape.â Your voice is small, broken, but firm. âIt wasnât rape, Yoongi.â
âFelt like it.â
âWell it wasnât.â You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand, makeup smearing. âI consented. Itâs 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 didnât want to know. But I wanted you to do it.â
âYou wanted me to want you.â
âI wanted you to have me while I sleep, Yoongi.â You break. âIâve had this kink for ages. And youâre the only man Iâd 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.â
âWhy?â
âBecause Iâm in love with you too, you fucking idiot.â
The words land right across his chest.
Because thereâs no way you just said that.
No way youâre 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.
âNo, youâre not.â
âYes, I am.â
âYou canât be.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause I just told you Iââ
âYou told me you did exactly what I asked you to do.â You lean forward, close enough that he can smell the coffee on your breath. âI wanted to explore my kink safely, with my comfort person, and you provided.â
âI told you Iâm a monster.â
âYou told me youâre human.â
He stares at you. At your tear-stained face and swollen eyes and the way youâre looking at him like he hasnât just confessed to being everything wrong with the world.
Like you still want him, even knowing what heâs done.
What heâs capable of.
âI donât understand.â
âIâve had that kink since before I knew what kinks were,â you say quietly. âBut Iâve never trusted anyone enough to ask for it before. Never felt safe enough to be that vulnerable with someone.â
âBut you trusted me.â
âI trust you, present tense.â You squeeze his fingers. âAnd you gave me exactly what I needed. What Iâve been needing for years.â
âI used you.â
âI asked you to use me.â
âI could have hurt you.â
âBut you didnât.â Youâre crying again, but softer now. âYou were careful with me. I trusted you with my fantasy and you helped me.â
He doesnât know what to say to that. Doesnât know how to process the idea that maybe he didnât ruin everything. Maybe he didnât become a monster.
Maybe he just became what you needed him to become.
âI love you too,â you say again, like you can see him struggling to believe it. âIâve 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 didnât do anything stupid.â
âThat doesnât meanââ
âIt means Iâve been in love with you for three years and too scared to tell you because I didnât think you could want someone as fucked up as me.â
âYouâre not fucked up.â
âI asked my best friend to help me with my weirdest kink and made up a rule because I couldnât handle the possibility of rejection.â
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.
âSo weâre both fucked up,â he says finally.
âYeah.â
âAnd weâre both in love.â
âApparently.â
âAnd I did fuck you last night.â
âThank god.â You laugh, watery and broken but real. âI was starting to think I wasnât pretty enough or something.â
âYouâre the prettiest thing Iâve ever seen.â
âThing?â
âPerson. Woman. Sorry, figure of speech.â
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 youâve always belonged there.
âIâm sorry,â he says into your hair.
âFor what?â
âFor making you think I didnât want you.â
âIâm sorry for making you think you were a monster for wanting me.â
âWeâre idiots.â
âThe biggest idiots.â
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 youâve been carrying for too long.
âSo what happens now?â you ask eventually.
âI donât know.â
âCan I stay?â
âYouâre always staying.â
âNo, I mean stay. With you. Like this.â
Like this. Like someone who loves him and knows he loves her back. Like someone who doesnât have to sleep alone anymore, who doesnât have to pretend she doesnât want him when sheâs awake.
Like someone he can touch whenever he wants, however he wants, with full knowledge and consent and love.
âYeah,â he says. âYou can stay.â
âGood.â You pull back to look at him, eyes still red but smiling now. âBecause I wasnât planning on leaving anyway.â
âPresumptuous.â
âI know what I want.â
âAnd whatâs that?â
âYou. Awake and asleep. Conscious and unconscious. All the ways youâll let me have you.â
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.
âAll the ways,â he agrees.
âGood.â
You kiss him then, soft and salt-sweet from tears. The first kiss youâve shared while youâre both awake, both aware, both choosing it.
It tastes like forgiveness.
Like coming home.
Like the beginning of something that doesnât have to happen in secret anymore.
When you pull away, youâre both smiling through your tears.
âI love you,â he says, because he can say it now.
Because you know and you love him back and he doesnât have to whisper it to your sleeping form anymore.
âI love you too.â
âEven knowing what I did?â
âEspecially knowing what you did.â
And maybe that makes you both a little fucked up. But youâre fucked up together now, which seems like the best possible outcome.
The only outcome that matters.
âCome here,â you say, tugging him back toward the cushions.
âWe just got up.â
âSo? We have three years to make up for.â
âThree years is a lot.â
âGood thing we have time.â
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 youâve always belonged.
âCan I ask you something?â you say against his throat.
âAnything.â
âNext time you fuck me while Iâm sleepingââ
âThereâs going to be a next time?â
âOh, thereâs definitely going to be a next time. And a time after that. And probably a time after that. I wasnât talking smack when I said I have a somnophilia kink, Yoongi.â
âBut next time we talk about it afterwards.â
You smile. âYeah, we do.â
The thought makes him hard already, which should probably be embarrassing but isnât. Not when youâre looking at him like you want to devour him.
Like you want him to devour you right back.
âWhatâs your question?â
âCan you wake me up at the end? So I can see how you look when you come?â
The request sends fire straight through his veins, because fuck. Fuck, youâre perfect.
âI can do that.â
âGood.â You press a kiss to his throat, soft and promising. âBecause I want to remember it this time.â
âRemember what?â
âHow it feels when you love me.â
And thatâs exactly what it was, he realizes. Not using you. Not taking advantage.
Loving you.
The only way youâd 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.
âI can show you that awake too,â he says.
âRight now?â
âRight now.â
And when he rolls you beneath him, kissing you deep and desperate and wide awake, it feels like kissing the moon.
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.
âž 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
âď¸ rundown ; You've always shared everything with your best friendâbeds, 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 partedâhe 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 admitsâto himself, if not to Y/Nâthat 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 accidentâshe'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 heâs 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 youâll know. But THAT is the moment this stops being just a kink fic and becomes something else entirely. Because itâs 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. Alsoâbecause I know someone will askâyes, 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 âresponsiblyâ (as if there's a responsible way to fuck your unconscious best friend, but you know what I mean). It's also practicalâno 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. âĄ
You show up at his apartment on a Wednesday with takeout and that look on your face.
The one that means youâre planning something.
âI brought japchae,â you announce, kicking off your shoes and heading straight for his couch like itâs your birth right. âThe good kind. From that place near your studio.â
Yoongi eyes you suspiciously. âWhat do you want?â
âWhy do I have to want something? Maybe Iâm just being nice.â
âYouâre never just nice.â
âRude.â But youâre grinning as you say it, already unpacking containers onto his coffee table. âCanât I just want to have dinner with my best friend?â
âYou could. But you donât.â He settles onto the couch beside you, accepting the chopsticks you hand him. âSo what is it?â
Youâre quiet for a moment, focused on your food in a way thatâs too measured to be genuine.
Then: âHave you thought about it?â
âThought about what?â
âYou know what.â
He does know.
Has thought about almost nothing else for weeks now.
But heâs not about to admit that.
âYou said you didnât want to know," he sighs.
âI said I didnât want to know if you did anything.â You look at him sideways, expression unreadable. âDoesnât mean I canât be curious about whether youâve thought about it.â
âThatâs the same thing.â
âItâs really not.â
Yoongi takes a bite of japchae and doesnât answer.
Because this is dangerous territory and youâre fishing, testing boundaries heâs not sure exist anymore.
Trying to figure out if heâs taken what you offered without actually asking him to break the rule you set.
Itâs so quintessentially you he almost groans.
âSo?â you prompt. âHave you?â
âHave I what?â
âThought about it. Imagined it.â You set down your chopsticks, turning to face him fully. âCome on, Yoongi. Itâs been weeks. You canât tell me you havenât at least considered it.â
âYou said you didnât want to know.â
âAnd youâre not telling me anything.â You lean closer, eyes bright. âIâm asking if youâve thought about touching me while I sleep. Thatâs it. Just a hypothetical question.â
âThereâs nothing hypothetical about it.â
âSo you have thought about it.â
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 youâre watching him with that small smile, like you already know the answer.
Like youâve always known.
âIâm not having this conversation,â he says finally.
âWhy not?â
âBecause you set the rules. And the rules say we donât talk about it.â
âI never said we couldnât talk about thinking about it.â You groan. âI just said I didnât want to know what you actually did. Big difference.â
âNot that big.â
âHuge difference. Massive.â You pick up your chopsticks again, twirling noodles like this is just casual dinner conversation. âLike, for example, I could tell you Iâve been thinking about it too. Wondering if youâve touched me. Wondering how you touched me, if you did. Where. For how long.â
Yoongi nearly chokes on his food.
âWhat?â
âSee? Thatâs me thinking about it. Not me asking if you actually did anything.â You take a bite, completely unbothered. âThose are different things.â
âTheyâre really not.â
âThey really are.â Youâre watching him again, studying his face like youâre trying to read his mind. âYou look stressed. Are you stressed?â
âIâm not stressed.â
âYouâre definitely stressed.â
âIâm eating japchae.â
âYouâre stress-eating japchae. Not the same.â You set down your food again, shifting closer. âYoongi. Real talk for a second. Are you okay?â
The question catches him off guard.
Because you sound genuinely concerned now, the teasing edge gone from your voice. Like youâre actually worried about him instead of just trying to get information.
âIâm fine,â he says.
âYou sure? Because I know I kind of⌠dropped a lot on you. With the whole somnophilia thing.â Youâre fidgeting now, picking at the hem of your shirt. âAnd I donât want you to feel like you have to do anything. Or like Iâm expecting anything. I just⌠wanted to put it out there. As an option.â
âI know.â
âDo you?â You look at him properly now, and thereâs something doubtful in your expression that makes his chest tight. âBecause Iâve been thinkingâmaybe I shouldnât have asked. Maybe it was too weird. Too much. Tooââ
âIt wasnât too much.â
âBut you havenâtââ You stop yourself, biting your lip. âSorry. Iâm not supposed to ask that.â
âThen donât.â
âIâm just curious.â
âYouâre always curious.â
âIs that a bad thing?â
âItâs a thing,â Yoongi says, which is not an answer but also completely accurate. âItâs just⌠you, I guess. Youâre always pushing, trying to figure out what people are thinking.â
Youâre quiet for a moment, considering.
Then you speak again. âYouâre impossible to read, you know? You could be thinking literally anything and Iâd have no idea.â
âThatâs the point.â
âItâs frustrating.â
âGood.â
You laugh at that, real and genuine, and some of the tension breaks. âYouâre an asshole.â
âDidnât stop you from befriending me.â
âYouâre right it didnât.â You smile as you say it, reaching for your food again. âOkay, fine. Iâll stop fishing. But for the recordâI wasnât lying when I said I think about it too.â
âAbout what?â
âAbout whether youâve touched me.â You say it casually, like itâs not big deal when it is. âI try to notice things when I wake up. Like if my clothes are different, or if Iâm positioned weird, or if thereâs any⌠evidence.â
âEvidence.â
âYou know what I mean.â
He does know.
Knows exactly what you mean. Knows youâve been trying to piece together whether heâs taken what you offered. Trying to figure out if heâs the kind of person who would.
The kind of person he is.
âAnd?â he asks, because apparently heâs a masochist.
âAnd nothing. I can never tell.â You sound almost disappointed. âEither youâre really good at covering your tracks, or you havenât done anything. And I set the rules myself. I canât ask which one it is.â
âNo, you canât.â
âBut I want to.â
âI know you do.â
âBut I wonât.â You look at him again, and the skin around your eyes crinkles the way it does when you genuinely smile. âBecause the not knowing is kind of⌠nice. In a weird way. Like SchrĂśdingerâs cat.â
Yoongi nearly drops his chopsticks.
âWhat?â
âSchrĂśdingerâs cat. You know, the thought experiment.â You pick at your food, absentminded. âLike, maybe youâve touched me, maybe you havenât. Both possibilities exist at the same time until I observe it. Until I know for sure. And as long as I donât know, both versions are real.â
He stares at you.
Because of course.
Of course youâd reference the exact same thought experiment he used to justify this to himself. Of course youâd understand the quantum mechanics of moral ambiguity.
Of course youâd get it.
âYouâve been thinking about this a lot,â he says.
âI told you I have.â You shrug, glancing at your noodles. âItâs interesting. The whole concept. Like, I gave you permission to touch me however you want while I sleep. But I also said I donât want to know if you do. So in my head, thereâs this constant possibility that youâre doing it. That youâve done it. That youâre thinking about doing it. And all those possibilities exist at the same time.â
âThatâs not how quantum mechanics works.â
âItâs exactly how quantum mechanics works. Donât mansplain physics to me.â
âIâm not mansplainingââ
âYou literally are.â But youâre laughing as you say it. âThe point is, I like the uncertainty. The not knowing. Itâs⌠exciting.â
âExciting.â
âYeah. Like, every time I wake up in your bed, thereâs this moment where I wonder if you touched me.â You lean back against the couch, eyes on the ceiling. âAnd Iâll never know for sure. Thatâs the best part.â
Yoongi doesnât know what to say to that.
Doesnât know how to process that youâve been thinking about this the same way he has.
That youâve been wondering and trying to piece together the truth while simultaneously enjoying the mystery of not knowing.
That you like the uncertainty.
âYouâre weird,â he says finally.
âYouâre weirder.â
âIâm really not.â
âYou are, though.â You turn your head to look at him, still sprawled against the couch. âYouâre the one sitting there refusing to confirm or deny whether youâve been touching your sleeping best friend. Thatâs pretty weird.â
âYou asked me to not tell you.â
âI know I did. Doesnât make it less weird.â Youâre grinning now, clearly enjoying his discomfort. âBut at least itâs consensual.â
âYou canât just add âconsensualâ in front of something and make it sound less weird.â
âConsensual murder.â
âThatâs just assisted suicide.â
âConsensual robbery.â
âThatâs called a gift.â
âConsensual assault.â
âThatâs BDSM.â
âOkay, but consensual cannibalism,â you say.
âThatâs just Hannibal.â
âConsensual haunting.â
âThatâs called being a roommate.â
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 wonât let go until youâve exhausted every possible variation.
Itâs annoying.
Heâs 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 nowâsome stupid puzzle thing that should be easy but isn'tâand 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.
"Fuckingâ" He restarts, trying a different strategy. Gets further this time, almost to the end, and thenâ
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,â is your reply, but you're already in the bedroom, and he hears the familiar sounds of you settling inâthe 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.
Heâs 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 itâhe'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 youâalready under the covers on the far side, or what passes for the far side in a mattress this narrowâcurled 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 youâgently, just enough to make you shift awayâwhen his eyes drift down.
And his phone drops directly onto his face.
"Fuckâ"
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 youâhow did youâ
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 isâthis 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 fabricâwhat little there is of itâclings 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 knowsâthat youâre really wearing that, that this is really happening, that heâs 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 youâre 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 didnât want him to feel pressured.
Said you didnât want to push this onto him, like it was your fantasy he was doing you a favor by indulging.
And thatâs so fucking funny it makes something twist in his chest.
Because at some pointâhe doesnât know when, canât pinpoint the exact momentâthis stopped being just your kink and became his too.
This isnât him doing you a favor anymore. This is him wanting it. Craving it. Thinking about it during every quiet moment until itâs carved a groove into his brain he canât 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 heâll do next time like heâs composing fucking music?
Maybe heâs 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. Heâs doing this.
He moves slowly, carefully repositioning himself to kneel between your thighs. You donât stir, donât even shift, just keep breathing deep and even like youâre 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. Doesnât remove itâjust moves it to the side, revealingâ
His forehead drops to the mattress.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Youâre 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 thisâvulnerable, unconscious, aroused without knowing itâturn him into something desperate and feral?
He lifts his head, staring at your cunt like it holds the answers to questions heâs too afraid to ask.
Will you wake up if he tastes you? Heâs been curious. Hasnât tried this yet. Has thought about it approximately seven thousand times but hasnât 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 youâll 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 likeâlike you. Like skin and salt and arousal, sharp and musky and distinctly human.
Itâs 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 clitâbarely, ghost of pressureâand 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 justâ
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 meansâtechnicallyâthis 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 actuallyâof reallyâ
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 consideringâplanningâto 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 isâ
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 oneâif he just takes you rawâ
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 itâs 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 slowlyâso fucking slowlyâfills 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 feelâyou 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 momentâthis exact feeling of being buried inside your sleeping bodyâis 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 feelsâgod, 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 selfâ
"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. "FuckâI love youâ"
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 thisâwhile he's inside you, using you, taking what he wants while you're unconscious.
Canât say it when youâre awake, apparently.
Hasnât 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 momentâ
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 donât 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 justâstares. 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 trashâtoo obvious. Can't leave it on the nightstand. Can'tâ
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 heâ
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.
ÂŤI love you.Âť
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.
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.
âž 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
âď¸ rundown ; You've always shared everything with your best friendâbeds, 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 partedâhe 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 admitsâto himself, if not to Y/Nâthat 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 accidentâshe'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 heâs 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 youâll know. But THAT is the moment this stops being just a kink fic and becomes something else entirely. Because itâs 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. Alsoâbecause I know someone will askâyes, 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 âresponsiblyâ (as if there's a responsible way to fuck your unconscious best friend, but you know what I mean). It's also practicalâno 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. âĄ
You show up at his apartment on a Wednesday with takeout and that look on your face.
The one that means youâre planning something.
âI brought japchae,â you announce, kicking off your shoes and heading straight for his couch like itâs your birth right. âThe good kind. From that place near your studio.â
Yoongi eyes you suspiciously. âWhat do you want?â
âWhy do I have to want something? Maybe Iâm just being nice.â
âYouâre never just nice.â
âRude.â But youâre grinning as you say it, already unpacking containers onto his coffee table. âCanât I just want to have dinner with my best friend?â
âYou could. But you donât.â He settles onto the couch beside you, accepting the chopsticks you hand him. âSo what is it?â
Youâre quiet for a moment, focused on your food in a way thatâs too measured to be genuine.
Then: âHave you thought about it?â
âThought about what?â
âYou know what.â
He does know.
Has thought about almost nothing else for weeks now.
But heâs not about to admit that.
âYou said you didnât want to know," he sighs.
âI said I didnât want to know if you did anything.â You look at him sideways, expression unreadable. âDoesnât mean I canât be curious about whether youâve thought about it.â
âThatâs the same thing.â
âItâs really not.â
Yoongi takes a bite of japchae and doesnât answer.
Because this is dangerous territory and youâre fishing, testing boundaries heâs not sure exist anymore.
Trying to figure out if heâs taken what you offered without actually asking him to break the rule you set.
Itâs so quintessentially you he almost groans.
âSo?â you prompt. âHave you?â
âHave I what?â
âThought about it. Imagined it.â You set down your chopsticks, turning to face him fully. âCome on, Yoongi. Itâs been weeks. You canât tell me you havenât at least considered it.â
âYou said you didnât want to know.â
âAnd youâre not telling me anything.â You lean closer, eyes bright. âIâm asking if youâve thought about touching me while I sleep. Thatâs it. Just a hypothetical question.â
âThereâs nothing hypothetical about it.â
âSo you have thought about it.â
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 youâre watching him with that small smile, like you already know the answer.
Like youâve always known.
âIâm not having this conversation,â he says finally.
âWhy not?â
âBecause you set the rules. And the rules say we donât talk about it.â
âI never said we couldnât talk about thinking about it.â You groan. âI just said I didnât want to know what you actually did. Big difference.â
âNot that big.â
âHuge difference. Massive.â You pick up your chopsticks again, twirling noodles like this is just casual dinner conversation. âLike, for example, I could tell you Iâve been thinking about it too. Wondering if youâve touched me. Wondering how you touched me, if you did. Where. For how long.â
Yoongi nearly chokes on his food.
âWhat?â
âSee? Thatâs me thinking about it. Not me asking if you actually did anything.â You take a bite, completely unbothered. âThose are different things.â
âTheyâre really not.â
âThey really are.â Youâre watching him again, studying his face like youâre trying to read his mind. âYou look stressed. Are you stressed?â
âIâm not stressed.â
âYouâre definitely stressed.â
âIâm eating japchae.â
âYouâre stress-eating japchae. Not the same.â You set down your food again, shifting closer. âYoongi. Real talk for a second. Are you okay?â
The question catches him off guard.
Because you sound genuinely concerned now, the teasing edge gone from your voice. Like youâre actually worried about him instead of just trying to get information.
âIâm fine,â he says.
âYou sure? Because I know I kind of⌠dropped a lot on you. With the whole somnophilia thing.â Youâre fidgeting now, picking at the hem of your shirt. âAnd I donât want you to feel like you have to do anything. Or like Iâm expecting anything. I just⌠wanted to put it out there. As an option.â
âI know.â
âDo you?â You look at him properly now, and thereâs something doubtful in your expression that makes his chest tight. âBecause Iâve been thinkingâmaybe I shouldnât have asked. Maybe it was too weird. Too much. Tooââ
âIt wasnât too much.â
âBut you havenâtââ You stop yourself, biting your lip. âSorry. Iâm not supposed to ask that.â
âThen donât.â
âIâm just curious.â
âYouâre always curious.â
âIs that a bad thing?â
âItâs a thing,â Yoongi says, which is not an answer but also completely accurate. âItâs just⌠you, I guess. Youâre always pushing, trying to figure out what people are thinking.â
Youâre quiet for a moment, considering.
Then you speak again. âYouâre impossible to read, you know? You could be thinking literally anything and Iâd have no idea.â
âThatâs the point.â
âItâs frustrating.â
âGood.â
You laugh at that, real and genuine, and some of the tension breaks. âYouâre an asshole.â
âDidnât stop you from befriending me.â
âYouâre right it didnât.â You smile as you say it, reaching for your food again. âOkay, fine. Iâll stop fishing. But for the recordâI wasnât lying when I said I think about it too.â
âAbout what?â
âAbout whether youâve touched me.â You say it casually, like itâs not big deal when it is. âI try to notice things when I wake up. Like if my clothes are different, or if Iâm positioned weird, or if thereâs any⌠evidence.â
âEvidence.â
âYou know what I mean.â
He does know.
Knows exactly what you mean. Knows youâve been trying to piece together whether heâs taken what you offered. Trying to figure out if heâs the kind of person who would.
The kind of person he is.
âAnd?â he asks, because apparently heâs a masochist.
âAnd nothing. I can never tell.â You sound almost disappointed. âEither youâre really good at covering your tracks, or you havenât done anything. And I set the rules myself. I canât ask which one it is.â
âNo, you canât.â
âBut I want to.â
âI know you do.â
âBut I wonât.â You look at him again, and the skin around your eyes crinkles the way it does when you genuinely smile. âBecause the not knowing is kind of⌠nice. In a weird way. Like SchrĂśdingerâs cat.â
Yoongi nearly drops his chopsticks.
âWhat?â
âSchrĂśdingerâs cat. You know, the thought experiment.â You pick at your food, absentminded. âLike, maybe youâve touched me, maybe you havenât. Both possibilities exist at the same time until I observe it. Until I know for sure. And as long as I donât know, both versions are real.â
He stares at you.
Because of course.
Of course youâd reference the exact same thought experiment he used to justify this to himself. Of course youâd understand the quantum mechanics of moral ambiguity.
Of course youâd get it.
âYouâve been thinking about this a lot,â he says.
âI told you I have.â You shrug, glancing at your noodles. âItâs interesting. The whole concept. Like, I gave you permission to touch me however you want while I sleep. But I also said I donât want to know if you do. So in my head, thereâs this constant possibility that youâre doing it. That youâve done it. That youâre thinking about doing it. And all those possibilities exist at the same time.â
âThatâs not how quantum mechanics works.â
âItâs exactly how quantum mechanics works. Donât mansplain physics to me.â
âIâm not mansplainingââ
âYou literally are.â But youâre laughing as you say it. âThe point is, I like the uncertainty. The not knowing. Itâs⌠exciting.â
âExciting.â
âYeah. Like, every time I wake up in your bed, thereâs this moment where I wonder if you touched me.â You lean back against the couch, eyes on the ceiling. âAnd Iâll never know for sure. Thatâs the best part.â
Yoongi doesnât know what to say to that.
Doesnât know how to process that youâve been thinking about this the same way he has.
That youâve been wondering and trying to piece together the truth while simultaneously enjoying the mystery of not knowing.
That you like the uncertainty.
âYouâre weird,â he says finally.
âYouâre weirder.â
âIâm really not.â
âYou are, though.â You turn your head to look at him, still sprawled against the couch. âYouâre the one sitting there refusing to confirm or deny whether youâve been touching your sleeping best friend. Thatâs pretty weird.â
âYou asked me to not tell you.â
âI know I did. Doesnât make it less weird.â Youâre grinning now, clearly enjoying his discomfort. âBut at least itâs consensual.â
âYou canât just add âconsensualâ in front of something and make it sound less weird.â
âConsensual murder.â
âThatâs just assisted suicide.â
âConsensual robbery.â
âThatâs called a gift.â
âConsensual assault.â
âThatâs BDSM.â
âOkay, but consensual cannibalism,â you say.
âThatâs just Hannibal.â
âConsensual haunting.â
âThatâs called being a roommate.â
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 wonât let go until youâve exhausted every possible variation.
Itâs annoying.
Heâs 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 nowâsome stupid puzzle thing that should be easy but isn'tâand 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.
"Fuckingâ" He restarts, trying a different strategy. Gets further this time, almost to the end, and thenâ
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,â is your reply, but you're already in the bedroom, and he hears the familiar sounds of you settling inâthe 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.
Heâs 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 itâhe'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 youâalready under the covers on the far side, or what passes for the far side in a mattress this narrowâcurled 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 youâgently, just enough to make you shift awayâwhen his eyes drift down.
And his phone drops directly onto his face.
"Fuckâ"
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 youâhow did youâ
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 isâthis 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 fabricâwhat little there is of itâclings 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 knowsâthat youâre really wearing that, that this is really happening, that heâs 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 youâre 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 didnât want him to feel pressured.
Said you didnât want to push this onto him, like it was your fantasy he was doing you a favor by indulging.
And thatâs so fucking funny it makes something twist in his chest.
Because at some pointâhe doesnât know when, canât pinpoint the exact momentâthis stopped being just your kink and became his too.
This isnât him doing you a favor anymore. This is him wanting it. Craving it. Thinking about it during every quiet moment until itâs carved a groove into his brain he canât 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 heâll do next time like heâs composing fucking music?
Maybe heâs 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. Heâs doing this.
He moves slowly, carefully repositioning himself to kneel between your thighs. You donât stir, donât even shift, just keep breathing deep and even like youâre 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. Doesnât remove itâjust moves it to the side, revealingâ
His forehead drops to the mattress.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Youâre 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 thisâvulnerable, unconscious, aroused without knowing itâturn him into something desperate and feral?
He lifts his head, staring at your cunt like it holds the answers to questions heâs too afraid to ask.
Will you wake up if he tastes you? Heâs been curious. Hasnât tried this yet. Has thought about it approximately seven thousand times but hasnât 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 youâll 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 likeâlike you. Like skin and salt and arousal, sharp and musky and distinctly human.
Itâs 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 clitâbarely, ghost of pressureâand 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 justâ
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 meansâtechnicallyâthis 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 actuallyâof reallyâ
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 consideringâplanningâto 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 isâ
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 oneâif he just takes you rawâ
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 itâs 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 slowlyâso fucking slowlyâfills 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 feelâyou 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 momentâthis exact feeling of being buried inside your sleeping bodyâis 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 feelsâgod, 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 selfâ
"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. "FuckâI love youâ"
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 thisâwhile he's inside you, using you, taking what he wants while you're unconscious.
Canât say it when youâre awake, apparently.
Hasnât 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 momentâ
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 donât 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 justâstares. 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 trashâtoo obvious. Can't leave it on the nightstand. Can'tâ
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 heâ
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.
ÂŤI love you.Âť
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.
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.
âž masterlist | moon dreams masterpost
rating ; 18+ | explicit
genre ; bsf to lovers, somnophilia kink, smut, angst, porn with plot
word count ; 4,4k
warnings ;Â explicit sexual content, consensual somnophilia, male oral sex (giving), (= blowjob), cum on face, clean-up, internal guilt spiral, obsessive thoughts, oral fixation
âď¸ rundown ; You've always shared everything with your best friendâbeds, 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 partedâhe 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 âmaybe this is still innocentâ to âyeah no, there's no going back from this.â 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 deliberateâit'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 herâtaste, 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. âĄ
It becomes a thing.
Not every night. But often enough that Yoongi starts to⌠notice patternsâyou 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.
Itâs been two weeks since the first time. Two weeks since he came on your thighs and discovered heâs the kind of person who gets off on unconscious permission. Two weeks of telling himself it wonât 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, youâre 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 doesnât even make it to another room. Just sits on the couch beside where youâre 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 thatâs what makes it worseâthe trust. The way you sleep so deeply in his space, so completely unguarded, like you know heâd never hurt you.
Even while heâs doing exactly what you asked him to do.
Heâs gotten good at the cleanup, too. Keeps tissues nearby now, plans his timing so he finishes when youâre deepest in sleep. Wipes away evidence like heâs covering up a crime, even though youâre 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 youâd 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 clothingâmore like fabric suggestions.
Youâd been sprawled on his couch scrolling through your phone while he made dinner, and youâd just⌠said it. Casual as anything.
âIâve been reading more about it,â you had said, nonchalantly as if talking about the weather.
Yoongi hadnât even looked up from his phone. âAbout what.â
âThat thing we talked about.â
His thumb had paused mid-scroll. âWhat thing.â
âYou know.â You had tasted the broth, made a face, added more seasoning. âSomnophilia stuff.â
And great, fantastic. Thatâd 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.
âCool,â heâd replied flatly. âThatâs great information. Really helpful. Iâll file that away in my âthings I definitely needed to knowâ folder.â
âIâm just sayingâitâs not just touching, you know? People do everything. Oral. Penetration. The whole thing.â
His grip had tightened on his phone. âAnd youâre sharing this with me becauseâŚ?â
âBecause Iâm giving you permission.â Youâd replied. Like it was obvious. Like granting him access to your unconscious body was the same as your fucking Netflix account. âFor all of it. Whatever you want to do while Iâm asleepâyou can.â
The room had gone very quiet, he remembers, because even the ramen seemed to have stopped bubbling.
âThatâsââ He hadnât known how to finish that sentence.
Still doesnât, if heâs being honest, when he thinks about it.
âI trust you.â Youâd said turnin back to the stove, dividing the ramen into two bowls. âAnd I donât want to know if you do anything. Thatâs still the rule. Donât tell me.â
Then youâd handed him a bowl and sat down at his table like you hadnât essentially just give him carte blanche to use your body however he wants while you sleep.
And from then on, he really hasnât been able to think about much else.
Itâs a problem.
A growing one, because now he notices things heâs pretty sure heâd never noticed before.
Like the way you fall asleep in positions that seem too premeditated to be accidentalâback arched, thighs spread, like youâre testing him, trying to figure out if heâs 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 heâs terrified he wants to be.
Everything, you had said.
Everything.
He wishes that everything meant nothing.
And nowâthree days laterâyouâre here again.
âItâs too fucking hot,â you complain, flopping down on his couch with a cherry popsicle already melting between your fingers. âHow do people survive summer without central air?â
âThey donât live in shitty apartments,â Yoongi mutters, but his attention isnât on your complaints about the weather.Â
Itâs 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 donât get his couch sticky. Would have complained about you leaving a mess in his apartment like you always do.
Now heâs 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 youâre wearing.
No underwear, he notices. Of course thereâs 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 thatâs the real problem, isnât it? Not that you asked him to do something fucked up, but that he wants to do it.
Wants to touch you while youâre asleepâdefenseless 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?
âPick something,â he says, leaning his head back against the couch and closing his eyes. âI donât care what.â
âYou always say that and then complain about my choices.â
âI wonât complain.â
âPromise?â
âJust pick something.â
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 youâre 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.
Heâs going to hell. Definitely going to hell for the thoughts running through his head right now.
âOoh, reality show,â you decide, settling on something loud and mindless. âPerfect for this weather.â
You change positions again, this time moving to rest your head on his lap like itâs the most natural thing in the world. Like you havenât 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. Youâve done this before. The fact that he can feel the warmth of your cheek through his jeans doesnât 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.
âBetter?â he asks, voice slightly brittle.
âMmm.â Youâre still working on the popsicle, completely oblivious to the way heâs staring down at you. âYouâre a good pillow.â
A good pillow. Right. Thatâs all he is to youâfurniture. A convenient place to rest your head while you suck on frozen treats and watch garbage television.
And you know, thatâs fine, really. This is how it should be. You trusting him enough to be vulnerable around him because you donât see him as a threat. Donât 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 useâthe same scent that clings to his sheets after you sleep in his bed.
âThis show is trash,â you mumble around the popsicle.
âYou picked it.â
âI like trash. Trash is comforting.â
âThat explains our friendship.â
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.
âYouâre being weird,â you observe, tilting your head to look up at him. âWeirder than usual.â
âIâm not being weird.â
âYouâre being very still. And quiet. Usually you complain about my show choices.â
âMaybe Iâm evolving.â
âDoubtful.â You go back to your popsicle, but he can feel you watching him from the corner of your eye. âAre you okay?â
No.
Heâs not okay.
He hasnât 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 heâs the kind of person who gets off on unconscious consent.
âIâm fine.â
âLiar.â
âWatch your show.â
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 youâre having on him and youâre enjoying every second of it.
Which is impossible. Because youâre oblivious. You have to be oblivious, or you wouldnât keep doing these things. Wouldnât keep pushing boundaries and testing limits like youâre trying to see how far you can go before he snaps.
Unless⌠thatâs exactly what youâre doing?
The thought hits him like ice water, sobering and terrifying.
What if this isnât innocent? What if you know exactly what youâre doing to him, and youâre doing it on purpose? What if youâre 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 youâre trying to do here?
âI think Iâm gonna crash here tonight,â you announce during a commercial break, as if this wasnât always the plan.
As if you ever intended to go back to your own apartment.
He knows you wouldnât.
âFine.â
âYou donât mind?â
âWould it matter if I did?â
You grin up at him, popsicle stick still between your lips. âNope.â
Of course it wouldnât.
Youâve been making yourself at home in his space for years, treating his apartment like an extension of your own.
The only thing thatâs changed is his awareness of it.
âYouâre gonna fall asleep on my lap,â he says, because youâre already looking drowsy. The heat and the sugar crash from the popsicle are making your eyelids heavy.
âMaybe.â
âThen Iâll be stuck here all night.â
âPoor you.â
âIâll get a crick in my neck.â
âIâll give you a massage tomorrow.â
He doesnât know why the offer makes something curl in his stomach. Itâs innocent, casual, nothing to get his panties in a twist over.
But he can picture it too easilyâyour hands on his shoulders, working out the knots and tension. Your fingers on his skin, careful and thorough and completely trusting.
He wonders if youâd make those soft sounds while you worked.
If youâd bite your lip in concentration the way you do when youâre focused on something.
If youâd let him return the favor.
âJust go to bed when you get tired,â he says instead.
âBut Iâm comfortable here.â
âYouâll be more comfortable in an actual bed.â
âYour bed or the couch?â
The question shouldnât matter. Youâve slept in both places dozens of times. But now thereâs weight to it, implication that makes his pulse kick up.
âWherever you want.â
âHmm.â You suck on the popsicle stick, getting the last traces of flavor, and Yoongi has to look away. âIâll decide later.â
Later.
When youâre tired and pliant and trusting enough to fall asleep wherever you land. When heâll 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 donât wear.
He just sighs, lets you get away with it because when it comes to you thatâs 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 youâre 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 someoneâs boyfriend, dramatic music swelling as one storms off stage.
See? He can do this. Heâs 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 agoâthat was just arousal. Heat of the moment. Some fucked-up horny impulse his brain conjured up because heâs been stressed and youâd been asking him weird questions about consent and somnophilia.
But heâs normal. Heâs not a creep.
Heâs fine.
His eyes drift down to your face and catch on the stick.
Itâs going to fall. Slip right out of your mouth and onto his jeans, leaving a sticky residue thatâll be impossible to explain tomorrow.
You always fall asleep with things in your mouthâpens, straws, your own fingers when youâre really tired.
Oral fixation, youâd joked once, like it was funny instead of distracting.
He should remove it. Basic courtesy. Youâd 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 âoâ that makes something twist low in his stomach.
When did your lips get so plump?
Theyâre swollen from the cold, glistening with traces of cherry syrup. Red and wet and slightly parted, like youâre waiting for something. Like youâre inviting him toâ
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 youâre sleeping in his lap with your mouth open like some kind of invitation. Itâs just biology. Random arousal that has nothing to do with the way you look right nowâdefenseless and trusting and completely unaware of what youâre 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 doesnât mean anything. The fact that your lips are still parted, still glistening, still looking like theyâre begging to be touchedâ
That doesnât mean anything either.
But Jesus your mouthâ
Itâs 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 canât even comment on the soft sucking noises because otherwise heâll pop a full-on boner.
ÂŤEverything. Oral, penetration, all of it.Âť
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 youâd react in your sleep. See if youâd part them wider, if youâd 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 youâd never know it happened.
Unless you woke up.
Then he would absolutely stop, because thatâs the boundary you set. And heâd be mortified and heâd try to crawl into a fucking hole for the rest of his life.
Long live to buried Min Yoongi, he guesses.
But the thing isâyou wonât wake up. You never do. You sleep like the dead when youâre comfortable, and youâre 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, isnât 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 donât stir. Donât even twitch.Just keep breathing soft and even against his thigh while he frees his cock from his jeans.
Itâs 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 andâ
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 heâs 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 sleepâthat you touched him without knowing, without meaning toâmakes 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 friendâs accidental tongue contact.
Probably a new circle. One theyâll 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 partâthe part that really just annihilates whateverâs left of his moral centerâis 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.
SchrĂśdinger'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 shouldnât feel this good. It shouldnât feel this fucking right, for fuckâs 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 itâs 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 takeâ
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 himâcompletely involuntaryâand 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 andâ
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 wayâ
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'tâdoesn'tâwant 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 wondersâjust for a secondâwhat 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. Maybeâ
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 âYou liked that, didnât you?â like you hadnât been the one begging for it?
He feels the weight settle on his chest.
The knowledge that heâs the only one whoâll 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.
Youâll 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 heâs already wondering when heâll get to do this again.
But he does.
He likes it.
Fucking likes it.
The private knowledge. The stolen intimacy. The fact that thisâthisâis something only he gets to have. Something you gave him and only him, even if you donât remember giving it.
He feels sick.
He feels heady.
He feels wanton.
And the worst part?
He doesnât 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 thatâs enough.
More than enough.
But he canâtâ
Canât finish like this.
Because doing so would likely mean you waking up with cum in your mouthâand if heâs falling down this rabbit hole already, heâs honoring your rule.
You donât 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 secondâconfused, seekingâbefore 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 andâ
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuckâ
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.Â
And you donât even know.
Donât stir. Donât wake. Just keep breathing soft and even while evidence of what heâs done drips down your skin.
The sight hits him like a fist to the chest.
You lookâ
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. Canât 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 nowâsweet and trusting and completely unawareâmakes 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 youâre 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 youâre 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 justâwipe 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 hitchesâtiny response, unconsciousâand he freezes again.
Waiting. Heart in his throat.
But once again, you donât wake. Just exhale soft and even.
Pretty. Youâre so fucking pretty like this.
Not some unattainable fantasy. Not the best friend heâs 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 didnât just use your mouth and come on your face and wipe away the evidence.
Like heâs not the kind of person who would do that to someone heâ
Donât.
Donât finish that thought. Donât make this worse.
His chest constricts. Tightens until breathing feels like work. Until the weight of what heâs 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 canât fix?
He crumples the wipes in his fist. Tucks them into his pocket because he canât canât 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 youâre 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 truthâthe real truth, the one he can't say out loudâis 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.
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.
âž masterlist | moon dreams masterpost
rating ; 18+ | explicit
genre ; bsf to lovers, somnophilia kink, smut, angst, porn with plot
word count ; 4,4k
warnings ;Â explicit sexual content, consensual somnophilia, male oral sex (giving), (= blowjob), cum on face, clean-up, internal guilt spiral, obsessive thoughts, oral fixation
âď¸ rundown ; You've always shared everything with your best friendâbeds, 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 partedâhe 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 âmaybe this is still innocentâ to âyeah no, there's no going back from this.â 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 deliberateâit'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 herâtaste, 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. âĄ
It becomes a thing.
Not every night. But often enough that Yoongi starts to⌠notice patternsâyou 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.
Itâs been two weeks since the first time. Two weeks since he came on your thighs and discovered heâs the kind of person who gets off on unconscious permission. Two weeks of telling himself it wonât 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, youâre 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 doesnât even make it to another room. Just sits on the couch beside where youâre 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 thatâs what makes it worseâthe trust. The way you sleep so deeply in his space, so completely unguarded, like you know heâd never hurt you.
Even while heâs doing exactly what you asked him to do.
Heâs gotten good at the cleanup, too. Keeps tissues nearby now, plans his timing so he finishes when youâre deepest in sleep. Wipes away evidence like heâs covering up a crime, even though youâre 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 youâd 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 clothingâmore like fabric suggestions.
Youâd been sprawled on his couch scrolling through your phone while he made dinner, and youâd just⌠said it. Casual as anything.
âIâve been reading more about it,â you had said, nonchalantly as if talking about the weather.
Yoongi hadnât even looked up from his phone. âAbout what.â
âThat thing we talked about.â
His thumb had paused mid-scroll. âWhat thing.â
âYou know.â You had tasted the broth, made a face, added more seasoning. âSomnophilia stuff.â
And great, fantastic. Thatâd 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.
âCool,â heâd replied flatly. âThatâs great information. Really helpful. Iâll file that away in my âthings I definitely needed to knowâ folder.â
âIâm just sayingâitâs not just touching, you know? People do everything. Oral. Penetration. The whole thing.â
His grip had tightened on his phone. âAnd youâre sharing this with me becauseâŚ?â
âBecause Iâm giving you permission.â Youâd replied. Like it was obvious. Like granting him access to your unconscious body was the same as your fucking Netflix account. âFor all of it. Whatever you want to do while Iâm asleepâyou can.â
The room had gone very quiet, he remembers, because even the ramen seemed to have stopped bubbling.
âThatâsââ He hadnât known how to finish that sentence.
Still doesnât, if heâs being honest, when he thinks about it.
âI trust you.â Youâd said turnin back to the stove, dividing the ramen into two bowls. âAnd I donât want to know if you do anything. Thatâs still the rule. Donât tell me.â
Then youâd handed him a bowl and sat down at his table like you hadnât essentially just give him carte blanche to use your body however he wants while you sleep.
And from then on, he really hasnât been able to think about much else.
Itâs a problem.
A growing one, because now he notices things heâs pretty sure heâd never noticed before.
Like the way you fall asleep in positions that seem too premeditated to be accidentalâback arched, thighs spread, like youâre testing him, trying to figure out if heâs 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 heâs terrified he wants to be.
Everything, you had said.
Everything.
He wishes that everything meant nothing.
And nowâthree days laterâyouâre here again.
âItâs too fucking hot,â you complain, flopping down on his couch with a cherry popsicle already melting between your fingers. âHow do people survive summer without central air?â
âThey donât live in shitty apartments,â Yoongi mutters, but his attention isnât on your complaints about the weather.Â
Itâs 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 donât get his couch sticky. Would have complained about you leaving a mess in his apartment like you always do.
Now heâs 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 youâre wearing.
No underwear, he notices. Of course thereâs 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 thatâs the real problem, isnât it? Not that you asked him to do something fucked up, but that he wants to do it.
Wants to touch you while youâre asleepâdefenseless 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?
âPick something,â he says, leaning his head back against the couch and closing his eyes. âI donât care what.â
âYou always say that and then complain about my choices.â
âI wonât complain.â
âPromise?â
âJust pick something.â
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 youâre 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.
Heâs going to hell. Definitely going to hell for the thoughts running through his head right now.
âOoh, reality show,â you decide, settling on something loud and mindless. âPerfect for this weather.â
You change positions again, this time moving to rest your head on his lap like itâs the most natural thing in the world. Like you havenât 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. Youâve done this before. The fact that he can feel the warmth of your cheek through his jeans doesnât 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.
âBetter?â he asks, voice slightly brittle.
âMmm.â Youâre still working on the popsicle, completely oblivious to the way heâs staring down at you. âYouâre a good pillow.â
A good pillow. Right. Thatâs all he is to youâfurniture. A convenient place to rest your head while you suck on frozen treats and watch garbage television.
And you know, thatâs fine, really. This is how it should be. You trusting him enough to be vulnerable around him because you donât see him as a threat. Donât 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 useâthe same scent that clings to his sheets after you sleep in his bed.
âThis show is trash,â you mumble around the popsicle.
âYou picked it.â
âI like trash. Trash is comforting.â
âThat explains our friendship.â
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.
âYouâre being weird,â you observe, tilting your head to look up at him. âWeirder than usual.â
âIâm not being weird.â
âYouâre being very still. And quiet. Usually you complain about my show choices.â
âMaybe Iâm evolving.â
âDoubtful.â You go back to your popsicle, but he can feel you watching him from the corner of your eye. âAre you okay?â
No.
Heâs not okay.
He hasnât 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 heâs the kind of person who gets off on unconscious consent.
âIâm fine.â
âLiar.â
âWatch your show.â
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 youâre having on him and youâre enjoying every second of it.
Which is impossible. Because youâre oblivious. You have to be oblivious, or you wouldnât keep doing these things. Wouldnât keep pushing boundaries and testing limits like youâre trying to see how far you can go before he snaps.
Unless⌠thatâs exactly what youâre doing?
The thought hits him like ice water, sobering and terrifying.
What if this isnât innocent? What if you know exactly what youâre doing to him, and youâre doing it on purpose? What if youâre 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 youâre trying to do here?
âI think Iâm gonna crash here tonight,â you announce during a commercial break, as if this wasnât always the plan.
As if you ever intended to go back to your own apartment.
He knows you wouldnât.
âFine.â
âYou donât mind?â
âWould it matter if I did?â
You grin up at him, popsicle stick still between your lips. âNope.â
Of course it wouldnât.
Youâve been making yourself at home in his space for years, treating his apartment like an extension of your own.
The only thing thatâs changed is his awareness of it.
âYouâre gonna fall asleep on my lap,â he says, because youâre already looking drowsy. The heat and the sugar crash from the popsicle are making your eyelids heavy.
âMaybe.â
âThen Iâll be stuck here all night.â
âPoor you.â
âIâll get a crick in my neck.â
âIâll give you a massage tomorrow.â
He doesnât know why the offer makes something curl in his stomach. Itâs innocent, casual, nothing to get his panties in a twist over.
But he can picture it too easilyâyour hands on his shoulders, working out the knots and tension. Your fingers on his skin, careful and thorough and completely trusting.
He wonders if youâd make those soft sounds while you worked.
If youâd bite your lip in concentration the way you do when youâre focused on something.
If youâd let him return the favor.
âJust go to bed when you get tired,â he says instead.
âBut Iâm comfortable here.â
âYouâll be more comfortable in an actual bed.â
âYour bed or the couch?â
The question shouldnât matter. Youâve slept in both places dozens of times. But now thereâs weight to it, implication that makes his pulse kick up.
âWherever you want.â
âHmm.â You suck on the popsicle stick, getting the last traces of flavor, and Yoongi has to look away. âIâll decide later.â
Later.
When youâre tired and pliant and trusting enough to fall asleep wherever you land. When heâll 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 donât wear.
He just sighs, lets you get away with it because when it comes to you thatâs 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 youâre 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 someoneâs boyfriend, dramatic music swelling as one storms off stage.
See? He can do this. Heâs 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 agoâthat was just arousal. Heat of the moment. Some fucked-up horny impulse his brain conjured up because heâs been stressed and youâd been asking him weird questions about consent and somnophilia.
But heâs normal. Heâs not a creep.
Heâs fine.
His eyes drift down to your face and catch on the stick.
Itâs going to fall. Slip right out of your mouth and onto his jeans, leaving a sticky residue thatâll be impossible to explain tomorrow.
You always fall asleep with things in your mouthâpens, straws, your own fingers when youâre really tired.
Oral fixation, youâd joked once, like it was funny instead of distracting.
He should remove it. Basic courtesy. Youâd 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 âoâ that makes something twist low in his stomach.
When did your lips get so plump?
Theyâre swollen from the cold, glistening with traces of cherry syrup. Red and wet and slightly parted, like youâre waiting for something. Like youâre inviting him toâ
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 youâre sleeping in his lap with your mouth open like some kind of invitation. Itâs just biology. Random arousal that has nothing to do with the way you look right nowâdefenseless and trusting and completely unaware of what youâre 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 doesnât mean anything. The fact that your lips are still parted, still glistening, still looking like theyâre begging to be touchedâ
That doesnât mean anything either.
But Jesus your mouthâ
Itâs 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 canât even comment on the soft sucking noises because otherwise heâll pop a full-on boner.
ÂŤEverything. Oral, penetration, all of it.Âť
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 youâd react in your sleep. See if youâd part them wider, if youâd 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 youâd never know it happened.
Unless you woke up.
Then he would absolutely stop, because thatâs the boundary you set. And heâd be mortified and heâd try to crawl into a fucking hole for the rest of his life.
Long live to buried Min Yoongi, he guesses.
But the thing isâyou wonât wake up. You never do. You sleep like the dead when youâre comfortable, and youâre 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, isnât 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 donât stir. Donât even twitch.Just keep breathing soft and even against his thigh while he frees his cock from his jeans.
Itâs 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 andâ
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 heâs 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 sleepâthat you touched him without knowing, without meaning toâmakes 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 friendâs accidental tongue contact.
Probably a new circle. One theyâll 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 partâthe part that really just annihilates whateverâs left of his moral centerâis 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.
SchrĂśdinger'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 shouldnât feel this good. It shouldnât feel this fucking right, for fuckâs 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 itâs 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 takeâ
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 himâcompletely involuntaryâand 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 andâ
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 wayâ
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'tâdoesn'tâwant 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 wondersâjust for a secondâwhat 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. Maybeâ
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 âYou liked that, didnât you?â like you hadnât been the one begging for it?
He feels the weight settle on his chest.
The knowledge that heâs the only one whoâll 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.
Youâll 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 heâs already wondering when heâll get to do this again.
But he does.
He likes it.
Fucking likes it.
The private knowledge. The stolen intimacy. The fact that thisâthisâis something only he gets to have. Something you gave him and only him, even if you donât remember giving it.
He feels sick.
He feels heady.
He feels wanton.
And the worst part?
He doesnât 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 thatâs enough.
More than enough.
But he canâtâ
Canât finish like this.
Because doing so would likely mean you waking up with cum in your mouthâand if heâs falling down this rabbit hole already, heâs honoring your rule.
You donât 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 secondâconfused, seekingâbefore 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 andâ
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuckâ
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.Â
And you donât even know.
Donât stir. Donât wake. Just keep breathing soft and even while evidence of what heâs done drips down your skin.
The sight hits him like a fist to the chest.
You lookâ
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. Canât 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 nowâsweet and trusting and completely unawareâmakes 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 youâre 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 youâre 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 justâwipe 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 hitchesâtiny response, unconsciousâand he freezes again.
Waiting. Heart in his throat.
But once again, you donât wake. Just exhale soft and even.
Pretty. Youâre so fucking pretty like this.
Not some unattainable fantasy. Not the best friend heâs 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 didnât just use your mouth and come on your face and wipe away the evidence.
Like heâs not the kind of person who would do that to someone heâ
Donât.
Donât finish that thought. Donât make this worse.
His chest constricts. Tightens until breathing feels like work. Until the weight of what heâs 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 canât fix?
He crumples the wipes in his fist. Tucks them into his pocket because he canât canât 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 youâre 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 truthâthe real truth, the one he can't say out loudâis 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.
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.
âž 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
âď¸ rundown ; You've always shared everything with your best friendâbeds, 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 partedâhe 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 talkâconsent 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 themâand 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 thingâand 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 youâre gonna suffer through it with him. It's âwhat the fuck am I doingâ and âthis is insaneâ and âshe's going to wake up and realize I'm a pervert and never speak to me again.â 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. Nowâwhile Iâve got you by the collarâlemme 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 nicknameâI know how I am about those and Iâm not apologizing, ever, Iâll die on that hill with a wine glass in hand. Itâs about using âYou:â for Yoongiâs contact in the messages. No, that wasnât a mistake. Itâs not lazy formatting. I didnât black out and forget which POV we were in. That was intentional. Yâall know Iâm a stickler for limited POV. Itâs always tight to the characterâs perspective, always filtered through their perceptions and mental framework, even if itâs not first person. So when he opens his phone and sees a message? Itâs gonna say âYou:â because heâs reading it. Thatâs his POV. Thatâs how he sees the chat. So yeah, even if weâre reading in third, the phone isnât gonna say âYoongi: heyâ like itâs floating in some neutral observer void. Itâs his head. His phone. His mental space. âYou:â is what he sees, and so thatâs what you see. Thatâs why it matters. Itâs 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⌠youâre absolutely right. Iâm out here being annoying on purpose. Iâm 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. ÂŻ\_(ă)_/ÂŻ)
Enjoy, you beautiful perverts. See you in Chapter 3. âĄ
How did his life become a series of text message negotiations over flavored alcohol for someone who doesnât even live here?
Yoongi stares at his phone screen, scrolling through an hourâs worth of messages that started with a simple âcoming overâ 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.
Heâs standing in the alcohol aisle at nine-thirty on a Wednesday night, which should be embarrassing, but mostly heâs just tired.
Tired of making decisions for someone who claims to be an adult but texts like a sugar-addicted teenager.
He doesnât know what you like. Thatâs the problem. Three years of friendship and he still canât predict whether youâre going to want sweet or salty, crunchy or chewy, Korean or foreign.
You change your mind like you change clothesâfrequently and without warning.
Last week you declared that you were âoverâ chocolate, and then yesterday you ate an entire sleeve of his cookies while complaining that they werenât 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 donât actually want to drink alcohol. Strawberry, peach, blueberry, grape, green grape, yogurtâbecause apparently regular grape wasnât specific enough.
He reaches for the strawberry automatically, muscle memory from dozens of these trips, then pauses.
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 youâre 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.
Because if he actually hated all of it, he wouldnât 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 fridgeâheâs 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 sojuâenough for you to get tipsy but not drunk enough to throw up in his bathroom againâand 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 youâll 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 youâre in the right mood, which is impossible to predict.
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 heâs running a fucking convenience store now, taking custom orders for someone who canât 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 theyâre not too depressing, and you like music thatâs âgood for studyingâ but never actually study while itâs 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.
He pays for everythingâsoju, chocolate, a bag of chips that arenât too crunchy, some gummy candy that probably counts as too soft but might satisfy your sugar addictionâand 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.
He doesnât respond to any of them, because encouraging you only makes it worse. Youâre like a catâignore the behavior and maybe itâll stop. Reward it with attention and youâre stuck dealing with it forever.
But as he climbs the stairs to his apartment, plastic bag cutting into his fingers, heâs already wondering what drama youâve chosen, whether youâll actually try the chocolate with almonds or just pick them out one by one, whether youâll curl up on the far end of the couch or sprawl across the whole thing like you own it.
Whether youâll fall asleep there again, and whether heâll carry you to his bed, and whether youâll 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 differentâdifferent 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. Itâs been three days since you asked him to touch you while you sleep, and he still doesnât know what to tell you.
Doesnât know if the fact that heâs considering it makes him a good friend or a terrible person.
Doesnât know if the fact that heâs been thinking about itâreally thinking about it, turning it over in his mind during quiet momentsâmeans something heâs not ready to examine.
All he knows is that youâre 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, youâll fall asleep on his couch or in his bed, and heâll have to decide whether tonight is the night he stops pretending he didnât hear what you asked for.
Sprawled across his couch like youâve 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 theyâre more comfortable than actual pajamas.Â
The sight stops him short every timeânot because itâs unusual, but because it should be.
And it isnât.
And that right thereâthatâs his problem.
Any normal person would find it weird that their friend raids their dresser like a personal clothing store, but youâve been doing this since college.Â
Since before college, really.Â
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.Â
Even then, red-faced and trying not to look, heâd wondered if you saw him as a guy at all or just as some sexless extension of yourself.Â
The years havenât answered that question.Â
If anything, theyâve made it more complicated.
âFinally,â you say without looking up from the remote, feet tucked under you until he settles down beside you.Â
Then immediately, as if nature itself begs of you, you swing your legs over and drop your feet in his lap. Heâs used to the weight, warm through his jeans, and he doesnât 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 youâre 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:Â Sweet dreams.
âWhatâs this one about?â he asks, settling back against the cushions.
âLooks interesting.â You take a bite of chocolate, remote balanced on your stomach as you navigate to the description. âSays itâs a thriller about a woman who starts having weird dreams about her roommate.â
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 thereâs something in the phrasing that makes his stomach flutter.
âWe could watch something else,â he suggests.
âNo, this looks good. Plus it has good ratings.â Youâre already hitting play, chocolate forgotten in your lap as the opening credits roll. âI like psychological stuff.â
The film starts innocuously enoughâgeneric college campus shots, establishing the main character as she moves into a shared apartment. Sheâs pretty in that unremarkable way thatâs 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.
Youâve 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.Â
Normal thriller setup, the kind of thing youâd find on any streaming service.Â
ButâŚ
Thereâs something in the way the camera lingers on her sleeping form, something in the way her roommateâs 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 Yoongiâs whole body goes rigid.
âWhy are we watching this?â he says quickly, reaching for the remote.
But youâre 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.Â
The soju sits untouched on the coffee table, but you never needed alcohol to fall asleep in his apartment.Â
You do it like breathingâeasily, completely, without any self-consciousness about being vulnerable around him.
Yoongi fumbles for the remote and pauses the film, but the damage is done.Â
His eyes flicker to the screen, to the frozen image that captures this whole fuckery really well, honestly.
The roommateâs face half-lit by hallway light, expression unreadable as he watches the sleeping girl.Â
The parallel is so obvious it makes his skin crawl.
So stares at you instead. Needs to, reallyâto 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 youâre really out, not just resting your eyes.Â
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.Â
The fact that youâre wearing his clothes, the fact that you trust him enough to be unconscious and defenseless in his spaceânone of this is new.
Whatâs new is the way his pulse kicks up when he looks at you like this.Â
The way his brain immediately jumps to what you asked him three days ago, the conversation thatâs been replaying in his head every quiet moment since.
ÂŤIf you ever do it, I donât want to know.Âť
He could touch you right now. Could slide his hand up your calf, test the softness of your skin, see if youâd react in your sleep.Â
Youâd never know. That was the whole point, wasnât 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 heâs thankful for that.
Thankful for the distraction, thankful for something to yank him back from doing something so stupid heâd 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 shouldnât want.
Your foot twitches against his leg, some unconscious movement in sleep, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.Â
But you donât wake up. Just settle deeper into the couch cushions, completely trusting, completely unaware of the way heâs looking at you.
The way he shouldnât be looking at you.
His brain works overtime trying to convince himself that what heâs 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 thisâyou 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 donât want to know, so he could do it and youâd never know and youâd stay best friends like always.
God, thatâs fucked up.
Thatâs so completely fucked up that he canât believe either of you said it out loud, let alone that heâs 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 itâs the only thing they can focus on?
He glances at you again, taking in your sleeping form.
Youâve shifted since you dozed off, legs relaxing, thighs parting slightly in that unconscious way people do when theyâre deeply asleep. The boxersâhis boxersâsit 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 thatâs exactly why you do thisâwearing his clothes, sprawling across his furniture, falling asleep in his space like youâre trying to test his self-control.
Maybe youâve 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 heâs never let himself think about what your skin might feel like before. Never let himself notice the way you always seem to be touching himâfeet in his lap, shoulder bumping his, hand on his arm when youâre 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 donât 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 heâs 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 donât react except to make that soft sound again, and something hot and shameful coils in his stomach.
Because this is what you wanted, isnât 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 donât rise.
Your head tilts further back against the couch cushions, and his eyes track the movement like heâs studying you. Really studying you, in a way heâs 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, doesnât 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 doesnât 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 didnât want to know what he did or didnât do while you slept.
So technically, this counts. This is him doing what you asked, even if heâs too much of a coward to actually touch you the way you probably meant.
Even if heâs 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 isnât the consent.
Because you asked for this. Explicitly. Told him to touch you however he wanted while you slept, told him you didnât want to know, told him you trusted him completely.
The consent isnât the issue here.
The issue is that youâre his best friend, and heâs 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 isnât.
The issue is that heâs 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 heâs unzipping his jeans with his free hand, movements careful and quiet so he doesnât 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 canât even process it, but he canât stop either.
Canât stop looking at you, canât stop thinking about what you asked him to do.
Canât 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 youâre 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 youâre not awake to guard your reactions?
But heâs 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 heâs doing it like a coward. Even if heâs too afraid to actually give you what you asked for.
But heâs touching your thigh, isnât he? Close enough, really. It should count.
It doesnât feel like it counts, though.
It feels like heâs just a pervert whoâs 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 youâre 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 doesnât.
Because heâs 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, heâs too much of a pussy to take what you offered.
The irony would be funny if it wasnât 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 heâs doing two feet away from you.
This is so fucked.
And heâs 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 isnât 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.
Heâs going to cum. Soon. And the thought of leaving evidence of what heâs 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.
Itâs obscene and perfect and so fucked up he canât 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 youâre 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 friendâs thighs while she sleeps?
But you asked him.
But itâs still fucked up.
But you requested this.
But itâs still fucked up.
But you gave explicit, enthusiastic consent.
But itâs 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 donât wake up, donât even stir as he gently wipes your skin clean and adjusts the boxers back into place.
When heâs done, he sits back and stares at you.
You look exactly the same as you did beforeâpeaceful, trusting, completely unaware that anything happened. Like he didnât just cross a line he can never uncross.
Like he didnât just discover something about himself that heâs not sure he wants to know.
The worst part isnât that he did it.
The worst part is that the gnawing, baleful feeling crawling at his chest doesnât overpower the fact that he liked it.
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.
âž 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
âď¸ rundown ; You've always shared everything with your best friendâbeds, 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 partedâhe 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 talkâconsent 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 themâand 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 thingâand 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 youâre gonna suffer through it with him. It's âwhat the fuck am I doingâ and âthis is insaneâ and âshe's going to wake up and realize I'm a pervert and never speak to me again.â 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. Nowâwhile Iâve got you by the collarâlemme 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 nicknameâI know how I am about those and Iâm not apologizing, ever, Iâll die on that hill with a wine glass in hand. Itâs about using âYou:â for Yoongiâs contact in the messages. No, that wasnât a mistake. Itâs not lazy formatting. I didnât black out and forget which POV we were in. That was intentional. Yâall know Iâm a stickler for limited POV. Itâs always tight to the characterâs perspective, always filtered through their perceptions and mental framework, even if itâs not first person. So when he opens his phone and sees a message? Itâs gonna say âYou:â because heâs reading it. Thatâs his POV. Thatâs how he sees the chat. So yeah, even if weâre reading in third, the phone isnât gonna say âYoongi: heyâ like itâs floating in some neutral observer void. Itâs his head. His phone. His mental space. âYou:â is what he sees, and so thatâs what you see. Thatâs why it matters. Itâs 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⌠youâre absolutely right. Iâm out here being annoying on purpose. Iâm 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. ÂŻ\_(ă)_/ÂŻ)
Enjoy, you beautiful perverts. See you in Chapter 3. âĄ
How did his life become a series of text message negotiations over flavored alcohol for someone who doesnât even live here?
Yoongi stares at his phone screen, scrolling through an hourâs worth of messages that started with a simple âcoming overâ 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.
Heâs standing in the alcohol aisle at nine-thirty on a Wednesday night, which should be embarrassing, but mostly heâs just tired.
Tired of making decisions for someone who claims to be an adult but texts like a sugar-addicted teenager.
He doesnât know what you like. Thatâs the problem. A decade of friendship and he still canât predict whether youâre going to want sweet or salty, crunchy or chewy, Korean or foreign.
You change your mind like you change clothesâfrequently and without warning.
Last week you declared that you were âoverâ chocolate, and then yesterday you ate an entire sleeve of his cookies while complaining that they werenât 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 donât actually want to drink alcohol. Strawberry, peach, blueberry, grape, green grape, yogurtâbecause apparently regular grape wasnât specific enough.
He reaches for the strawberry automatically, muscle memory from dozens of these trips, then pauses.
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 youâre 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.
Because if he actually hated all of it, he wouldnât 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 fridgeâheâs 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 sojuâenough for you to get tipsy but not drunk enough to throw up in his bathroom againâand 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 youâll 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 youâre in the right mood, which is impossible to predict.
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 heâs running a fucking convenience store now, taking custom orders for someone who canât 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 theyâre not too depressing, and you like music thatâs âgood for studyingâ but never actually study while itâs 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.
He pays for everythingâsoju, chocolate, a bag of chips that arenât too crunchy, some gummy candy that probably counts as too soft but might satisfy your sugar addictionâand 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.
He doesnât respond to any of them, because encouraging you only makes it worse. Youâre like a catâignore the behavior and maybe itâll stop. Reward it with attention and youâre stuck dealing with it forever.
But as he climbs the stairs to his apartment, plastic bag cutting into his fingers, heâs already wondering what drama youâve chosen, whether youâll actually try the chocolate with almonds or just pick them out one by one, whether youâll curl up on the far end of the couch or sprawl across the whole thing like you own it.
Whether youâll fall asleep there again, and whether heâll carry you to his bed, and whether youâll 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 differentâdifferent 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. Itâs been three days since you asked him to touch you while you sleep, and he still doesnât know what to tell you.
Doesnât know if the fact that heâs considering it makes him a good friend or a terrible person.
Doesnât know if the fact that heâs been thinking about itâreally thinking about it, turning it over in his mind during quiet momentsâmeans something heâs not ready to examine.
All he knows is that youâre 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, youâll fall asleep on his couch or in his bed, and heâll have to decide whether tonight is the night he stops pretending he didnât hear what you asked for.
Sprawled across his couch like youâve 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 theyâre more comfortable than actual pajamas.Â
The sight stops him short every timeânot because itâs unusual, but because it should be.
And it isnât.
And that right thereâthatâs his problem.
Any normal person would find it weird that their friend raids their dresser like a personal clothing store, but youâve been doing this since college.Â
Since before college, really.Â
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.Â
Even then, red-faced and trying not to look, heâd wondered if you saw him as a guy at all or just as some sexless extension of yourself.Â
The years havenât answered that question.Â
If anything, theyâve made it more complicated.
âFinally,â you say without looking up from the remote, feet tucked under you until he settles down beside you.Â
Then immediately, as if nature itself begs of you, you swing your legs over and drop your feet in his lap. Heâs used to the weight, warm through his jeans, and he doesnât 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 youâre 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:Â Sweet dreams.
âWhatâs this one about?â he asks, settling back against the cushions.
âLooks interesting.â You take a bite of chocolate, remote balanced on your stomach as you navigate to the description. âSays itâs a thriller about a woman who starts having weird dreams about her roommate.â
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 thereâs something in the phrasing that makes his stomach flutter.
âWe could watch something else,â he suggests.
âNo, this looks good. Plus it has good ratings.â Youâre already hitting play, chocolate forgotten in your lap as the opening credits roll. âI like psychological stuff.â
The film starts innocuously enoughâgeneric college campus shots, establishing the main character as she moves into a shared apartment. Sheâs pretty in that unremarkable way thatâs 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.
Youâve 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.Â
Normal thriller setup, the kind of thing youâd find on any streaming service.Â
ButâŚ
Thereâs something in the way the camera lingers on her sleeping form, something in the way her roommateâs 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 Yoongiâs whole body goes rigid.
âWhy are we watching this?â he says quickly, reaching for the remote.
But youâre 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.Â
The soju sits untouched on the coffee table, but you never needed alcohol to fall asleep in his apartment.Â
You do it like breathingâeasily, completely, without any self-consciousness about being vulnerable around him.
Yoongi fumbles for the remote and pauses the film, but the damage is done.Â
His eyes flicker to the screen, to the frozen image that captures this whole fuckery really well, honestly.
The roommateâs face half-lit by hallway light, expression unreadable as he watches the sleeping girl.Â
The parallel is so obvious it makes his skin crawl.
So stares at you instead. Needs to, reallyâto 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 youâre really out, not just resting your eyes.Â
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.Â
The fact that youâre wearing his clothes, the fact that you trust him enough to be unconscious and defenseless in his spaceânone of this is new.
Whatâs new is the way his pulse kicks up when he looks at you like this.Â
The way his brain immediately jumps to what you asked him three days ago, the conversation thatâs been replaying in his head every quiet moment since.
ÂŤIf you ever do it, I donât want to know.Âť
He could touch you right now. Could slide his hand up your calf, test the softness of your skin, see if youâd react in your sleep.Â
Youâd never know. That was the whole point, wasnât 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 heâs thankful for that.
Thankful for the distraction, thankful for something to yank him back from doing something so stupid heâd 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 shouldnât want.
Your foot twitches against his leg, some unconscious movement in sleep, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.Â
But you donât wake up. Just settle deeper into the couch cushions, completely trusting, completely unaware of the way heâs looking at you.
The way he shouldnât be looking at you.
His brain works overtime trying to convince himself that what heâs 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 thisâyou 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 donât want to know, so he could do it and youâd never know and youâd stay best friends like always.
God, thatâs fucked up.
Thatâs so completely fucked up that he canât believe either of you said it out loud, let alone that heâs 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 itâs the only thing they can focus on?
He glances at you again, taking in your sleeping form.
Youâve shifted since you dozed off, legs relaxing, thighs parting slightly in that unconscious way people do when theyâre deeply asleep. The boxersâhis boxersâsit 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 thatâs exactly why you do thisâwearing his clothes, sprawling across his furniture, falling asleep in his space like youâre trying to test his self-control.
Maybe youâve 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 heâs never let himself think about what your skin might feel like before. Never let himself notice the way you always seem to be touching himâfeet in his lap, shoulder bumping his, hand on his arm when youâre 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 donât 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 heâs 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 donât react except to make that soft sound again, and something hot and shameful coils in his stomach.
Because this is what you wanted, isnât 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 donât rise.
Your head tilts further back against the couch cushions, and his eyes track the movement like heâs studying you. Really studying you, in a way heâs 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, doesnât 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 doesnât 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 didnât want to know what he did or didnât do while you slept.
So technically, this counts. This is him doing what you asked, even if heâs too much of a coward to actually touch you the way you probably meant.
Even if heâs 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 isnât the consent.
Because you asked for this. Explicitly. Told him to touch you however he wanted while you slept, told him you didnât want to know, told him you trusted him completely.
The consent isnât the issue here.
The issue is that youâre his best friend, and heâs 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 isnât.
The issue is that heâs 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 heâs unzipping his jeans with his free hand, movements careful and quiet so he doesnât 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 canât even process it, but he canât stop either.
Canât stop looking at you, canât stop thinking about what you asked him to do.
Canât 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 youâre 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 youâre not awake to guard your reactions?
But heâs 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 heâs doing it like a coward. Even if heâs too afraid to actually give you what you asked for.
But heâs touching your thigh, isnât he? Close enough, really. It should count.
It doesnât feel like it counts, though.
It feels like heâs just a pervert whoâs 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 youâre 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 doesnât.
Because heâs 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, heâs too much of a pussy to take what you offered.
The irony would be funny if it wasnât 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 heâs doing two feet away from you.
This is so fucked.
And heâs 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 isnât 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.
Heâs going to cum. Soon. And the thought of leaving evidence of what heâs 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.
Itâs obscene and perfect and so fucked up he canât 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 youâre 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 friendâs thighs while she sleeps?
But you asked him.
But itâs still fucked up.
But you requested this.
But itâs still fucked up.
But you gave explicit, enthusiastic consent.
But itâs 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 donât wake up, donât even stir as he gently wipes your skin clean and adjusts the boxers back into place.
When heâs done, he sits back and stares at you.
You look exactly the same as you did beforeâpeaceful, trusting, completely unaware that anything happened. Like he didnât just cross a line he can never uncross.
Like he didnât just discover something about himself that heâs not sure he wants to know.
The worst part isnât that he did it.
The worst part is that the gnawing, baleful feeling crawling at his chest doesnât overpower the fact that he liked it.
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.
âž 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
âď¸ rundown ; You've always shared everything with your best friendâbeds, 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 partedâhe 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 personâI 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 lookâeveryone'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 judgmentâthose are valid fantasies to explore in safe fictional spaces, and purity/censorship culture can fuck right off. Fiction is not endorsement, and thereâs 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 âtheyâre 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?â And it's framed as sweet boyfriend behavior rather than... you know... a violation of consent that would be deeply fucked up in reality. ( ̄ď˝ďżŁ;) There's a difference between âI'm deliberately writing noncon/dubcon and we all know that's what this isâ (which again, valid) versus âI'm writing noncon/dubcon but pretending it's actually totally fine and normal and healthy.â One is honest about what it is. The other is... not great, actually. So when I decided I wanted to write somnophiliaâwhich is, let's be real, an inherently risky kink that exists in this fascinating space between trust and vulnerabilityâI 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 Chapterâ˘. I know, I know. You're probably thinking âgirl, I came here for the spicy unconscious touching, not an ethics seminar.â 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. â( ̄ă ̄;)â
You snore when youâre really tired.
Not loudâjust this soft, rhythmic sound that Yoongi finds moderately irritating and completely predictable.Â
Youâve 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 youâd been mid-scroll when consciousness finally gave up on you.
He should probably feel bad about letting you crash there.Â
You always complain about waking up twisted into shapes that shouldnât be anatomically possible, and then you spend the next morning being dramatic about it, stretching and groaning like youâve been hit by a truck.
But honestly? Thatâs your problem.
Youâre 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 youâd mentioned it earlier while picking through the Korean corn dogs youâd insisted on buying from that overpriced food truck downtown.
âItâs like being awake but trapped in concrete,â youâd said, stealing one of his pickled radishes despite having ordered your own. âCanât move, canât speak. Sometimes I see stuff that isnât there.â
Yoongi had made a noncommittal sound and continued eating, but heâd filed the information away like he always does when you mention something that might be important later.Â
Itâs not that he cares, exactly.
Itâs just that you have a tendency to undersell things that are actually problems, and heâs gotten good at reading between the lines.
Like how youâd said the market would be âjust a quick look aroundâ and then proceeded to drag him through every single stall, examining handmade jewelry and organic honey like you were conducting scientific research.Â
Or how youâd claimed you werenât 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.Â
Itâs annoying.Â
But itâs also been going on for so long that heâs developed a kind of automatic response systemâbuying extra food when you say youâre 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 youâre unconscious on his couch in a thin tank top thatâs riding up your back, and he knows that if he leaves you there, youâll 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, heâs not that lucky.
âUnbelievable,â he mutters, but heâs already standing up, already moving toward you with the resigned energy of someone whoâs done this before.Â
Youâre 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 youâve been using since college.
His bed is a single, which is a problem heâs been meaning to address for approximately three years now.
It made sense when he first moved inâcheaper, and itâs not like he had anyone to share it with anyway.Â
But you crash here often enough that the lack of space has become a legitimate inconvenience.
And on top of that, you sleep like youâre 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.Â
Which, at this point, you basically do.Â
You sleep here more often than you sleep at your own place, and youâve 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 heâd accept money from you anyway.Â
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.Â
But when he comes back, youâve somehow managed to spread out even more, one arm flung across the space where heâs 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 donât wake up.
Your leg bumps against his hip, and he gently pushes it back toward your side of the bedânot that there really is a âyour sideâ 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.Â
He should probably be more annoyed about it than he is.
The thing isâhe isnât.Â
But he wishes he was.Â
And now the room is way too darkâthough thereâs the faint glow of streetlights filtering through his blinds.Â
Youâve gone quiet now, no more snoring, just the hypnotic kind of rhythm of deep sleepâslower than usual, the kind of heavy, even pattern that means youâre really out.
Yoongi closes his eyes and tries to find a comfortable position that doesnât involve any part of his body touching any part of yours. Itâs 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. Youâre a space invader. A cover thief. A human starfish who somehow always ends up diagonal across the mattress by morning.
Heâs almost asleep when you say his name.
Not loud. Barely a whisper, really. But clear enough that thereâs no mistaking it.
âYoongi.â
His eyes snap open.
Youâre still facing him, on your side, still breathing deeply, clearly unconscious. But youâd said his name likeâ
Like what? Like you were calling for him?Â
Because it was not the way you usually say it when youâre awakeâsharp with irritation, or drawn out with amusement.Â
This was⌠different. Quieter. Like you were tasting the sound of it.
No. No, thatâs ridiculous. People say random things in their sleep all the time. It doesnât mean anything.Â
You probably werenât 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 likeâ
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.Â
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 donât say anything else. Just sleep on, peaceful and oblivious while his mind races.
This is weird as fuck.Â
Okay. So. You said his name in your sleep. People do that. It doesnât 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 didnât sound like any of those things.
It sounded like you were whimpering it.
âJesus Christ,â he whispers to the ceiling.
Now his brain is stuck on replay, turning that sound over and over until itâs 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 isnât that just great? Now heâs going to have to pretend he didnât hear it.Â
Tomorrow morning, when you wake up and stretch and complain about being stiff, heâs going to act like you didnât just make the most embarrassing sound possible while unconscious in his bed.
Great. Amazing. Really looking forward to that performance.
But alsoâand this is the part that makes him want to hang himselfâheâs replaying it. Again. The soft way you breathed his name, likeâŚ
Like okay. Heâs a healthy adult man. So really, itâs not like he can be blamed. He might be thinking about it. But thatâs justâthatâs just normal biological response to⌠whatever the hell that was.
You shift again, and your hand slides across the sheet, fingertips brushing his arm.Â
Even in sleep, youâre invading his space, taking more than your share of the mattress.
Typical.
And normal. Youâre asleep. People have weird dreams. It doesnât mean anything, and heâs definitely not going to think about it, and tomorrow morning heâll pretend this never happened because thatâs what normal friends do.
But lying there in the dark, Yoongi finds himself staring at the ceiling and wondering what the hell heâs supposed to do with the way his name sounds when you say it like that.
Nothing, he decides. Heâs going to do absolutely nothing with that information. Just pretend it didnât happen.
He closes his eyes and tries to sleep.Â
Yoongi wakes up with your foot in his ribs.
Youâre sprawled across his bed like youâre 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 somehowâsomehowâyouâve managed to steal most of his pillow.
This is why he doesnât share beds with you.
You sleep like youâre fighting invisible enemies.
He nudges your leg with his knee. âMove.â
You make a sound thatâs half-whine, half-growl and burrow deeper into his pillow.
âIâm serious. Get off me.â
âFive more minutes,â you mumble, voice thick with sleep.
âItâs my bed.â
âShared custody.â
He considers shoving you off the mattress entirely, but youâll just whine about it for the next hour, and he hasnât had coffee yet.Â
Heâs 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.Â
Something about you saying his name, which is stupid because you say his name all the time. Thereâs nothing significant about hearing it in a dream.
Except it hadnât felt like aâŚÂ dream.
âCoffee,â you announce from the doorway, bedhair all over the place which makes him almost snort (he doesnât), wearing his oversized t-shirt that you definitely stole from his dresser.
âMake your own.â
âYouâre already making some.â
âFor myself.â
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 thereâs a crease on your cheek from his pillowcase.
âYou kicked me,â you complain, stirring an obscene amount of sugar into your mug.
âYou were taking up the entire bed.â
âI was not.â
âYou had your foot in my kidney.â
âThatâs not my fault. You have a tiny bed.â
Yoongi takes a long sip of his coffee and decides not to engage.Â
Youâll 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, blinkingâand oh, oh he doesnât like that look at all.Â
âWhat?â he says.
âNothing.â
âYouâre staring.â
âIâm thinking.â
âDonât.â
You snort. âVery funny. I had an interesting dream last night.â
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.
âRiveting,â he says flatly.
âI dreamed you were touching me.â
Yoongi nearly chokes on his coffee.Â
Because what the fuck did you just say.
âWhat?â
âNot like that,â you say quickly, though thereâs something in your voice that suggests maybe it was exactly like that. âI mean, maybe like that. It was weird.â
âYouâre weird.â
âIâm serious.â You set down your mug and turn to face him fully. âIt got me thinking.â
âAlways dangerous.â
âShut up. Iâm trying to have a conversation here.â
âAbout your sex dreams. Hard pass.â
âIt wasnât a sex dream.â But youâre fidgeting now, picking at the hem of his shirt. âIt was just⌠touching. While I was asleep.â
Yoongi stares at you. âOkay?â
âDonât you think thatâs kind of⌠interesting?â
His eyes narrow to slits.
âI think you need therapy.â
âIâm being serious.â Youâre warming up to whatever point youâre trying to make, eyes getting brighter. âLike, the idea of being touched while youâre unconscious. Vulnerable. But safe.â
âThat sounds like something you should discuss with a professional.â
âOr with you.â
He sets down his coffee cup with more force than necessary.Â
âAbsolutely not.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause itâs fucking weird, thatâs why.â
âEverythingâs weird if you think about it too hard.â
âThis is weird without thinking about it at all.â
Youâre quiet for a moment, chewing on your lower lip.Â
He recognizes this lookâitâs the same expression you get when youâre about to suggest something monumentally stupid.
âBet youâve thought about it though,â you say finally.
Yoongi stares at you like youâre speaking in tongues.Â
Because seriouslyâthereâs no way.
Thereâs no way his perfectly sane (sometimes) best friend is literally suggesting what he thinks youâre suggesting.
âDid you hit your head when you fell off the bed this morning?â
âI didnât fall off the bed.â
âThen whatâs your excuse for this conversation?â
You lean forward, elbows on the counter. âIâm just saying, hypothetically, if someone wanted to try itââ
âWeâre not talking about this.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause itâs insane?â
âItâs not insane. Itâs just different.â
âItâs perverted.â
âYouâre being dramatic.â
Yoongi pinches the bridge of his nose. âI need more coffee for this.â
âIâm not asking you to do anything,â you say quickly. âIâm just⌠talking about it.â
âWell, stop.â
But you donât stop.Â
Because you never stop when you get an idea stuck in your head. Youâre like a dog with a bone, worrying at it until everyone around you wants to scream.
âI read about it online,â you continue, ignoring his obvious discomfort. âItâs called somnophilia. And itâs not that uncommon.â
âGreat. Wonderful. You learned a new word.â
âSome people find it really intimate. The trust aspect.â
âIâm leaving.â
âWhere are you going?â
âAnywhere that isnât here.â
You grab his arm as he tries to walk past you. âWait. Just⌠hear me out.â
âNo.â
âSixty seconds? Please. Thatâs all Iâm asking.â
âI said no.â
âYouâre not even curious? Not even a little bit?â
He looks down at your hand on his arm, then back at your face.
Youâre watching him with that stubborn expression that means youâre not going to let this go until he at least pretends to consider it.
âYouâre not serious,â he says finally.
âIâm dead serious.â
âYou want me to⌠what? Touch you while youâre asleep?â
âMaybe.â
âMaybe?â
âI donât know. Thatâs why I want to talk about it.â
Yoongi pulls his arm free and takes a step back. âThis is the stupidest conversation weâve ever had.â
âWeâve had stupider.â
âName one.â
âThat time you tried to convince me that cereal was soup.â
âCereal is soup.â
âSee? Stupider.â
Despite himself, Yoongi almost smiles. Almost. But then he remembers what youâre actually suggesting, and the moment passes.
âThis is different,â he says.
âHow?â
âBecause cereal doesnât involve me potentially assaulting you in your sleep.â
âItâs not assault if I ask for it.â
âItâs somethign.â
Youâre quiet for a moment, studying his face. âYouâre really freaked out by this.â
âOf course Iâm freaked out by this.â
âWhy?â
âBecause normal people donât ask their friends to molest them?â
âIâm not asking you to molest me! Iâm asking you to⌠explore a fantasy.â
âYour fantasy.â
âMaybe yours too.â
Yoongi stares at you.Â
âI donât have fantasies about unconscious people.â
âBut you have fantasies.â
âNot about you.â
âI didnât say they had to be about me,â you say defensively.
âThen what are we talking about?â
âI donât know.â Youâre fidgeting again, picking at the counter edge. âI just thought⌠we trust each other. It doesnât have to be weird.â
âItâs already weird.â
âOnly because youâre making it weird.â
âIâm making it weird?â
âYes.â
âYouâre the one who brought up getting touched in your sleep.â
âBecause I trust you.â
Silence.
Yoongi feels something twist in his chestâguilt, maybe, or responsibility.Â
The weight of being someoneâs safe person.
He sighs heavily. âWhat would⌠what would it involve?â
Your face lights up like you won the lottery. âReally?â
âI didnât say yes. Iâm asking what youâre even talking about.â
âRight. Okay.â Youâre practically bouncing now, hands gesturing as you talk. âSo the whole point is that Iâd be asleep. Completely unconscious. And you could⌠touch me.â
âTouch you how?â
âHowever you wanted.â
Yoongi stares at you. âThatâs not an answer.â
âI donât know! Thatâs the point. I wouldnât know what you did unless I woke up.â
âAnd if you woke up?â
âThen youâd stop. Obviously.â
âThat is insane.â
âItâs not insane. People do this.â
âNot people I know.â
âWell, now you know me.â
He runs a hand through his hair. âLet me get this straight. You want me toâŚÂ what? Grope you while youâre unconscious?â
âIf you wanted to.â
âWhat if I donât want to?â
You shrug. âThen you donât do anything. You just let me sleep.â
âAnd youâd never know either way.â
âThatâs the point.â
âWhat kind of point is that?â
âThe exciting kind.â Youâre leaning forward now, eyes bright with something that looks dangerously close to enthusiasm. âThink about it. Iâd go to sleep not knowing if you were going to touch me or not. And youâd know, but I wouldnât. Thereâs this wholeâŚÂ tension.â
âTension.â
âYeah. Like, maybe you did something. Maybe you didnât. Iâd never know for sure.â
Yoongi looks at you like youâve lost your fucking mind. âWhy would you want that?â
âBecause itâs exciting! The not knowing. The possibility.â
âYouâre fucked up.â
âIâm curious.â
âAbout being molested in your sleep.â
âAbout being desired,â you correct. âThereâs a difference.â
âIs there?â
âYes. If you touched me, it would be because you wanted to. Not because I was awake and asking for it.â
âThatâsâŚâ He stops, trying to process what you just said. âThatâs the most backwards logic Iâve ever heard.â
âIt makes sense to me.â
âNothing about this makes sense.â
Youâre quiet for a moment, chewing on your lower lip.Â
âYou donât have to do anything you donât want to do.â
âI donât want to do any of this.â
âOkay.â
âIâm serious.â
âI know.â
Silence, again.Â
He stares at the brown liquid swimming in his cup. Thinks about what youâre saying. Wonders why youâd want that at all.
But most importantlyâŚ
âWhy me?â he asks finally.
âWhat?â
âWhy are you asking me? There are other people. People who might actually be into this shit.â
âI donât trust other people.â
âYou shouldnât trust me either.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause Iâm a guy?â
âSo?â
âSo guys areâŚâ He gestures vaguely. âWe think about sex. A lot. More than we should.â
âI know.â
âAnd youâre asking me to touch you while youâre unconscious and canât say no.â
âBut Iâm saying yes now.â
âThatâs not how consent works.â
âIsnât it?â
Yoongi stares at you. âI donât know. Iâm not a lawyer.â
âYouâre overthinking this.â
âSomeone should.â
Youâre quiet again, but he can see the wheels turning in your headâthat conniving expression you get when youâre trying to convince him to watch some terrible movie you saw a trailer for.
âWhat if we had rules?â you say finally.
âRules.â
âYeah. Like, boundaries. Things you can and canât do.â
âThis is the part where you tell me what you actually want.â
You fidget with your coffee mug. âI want to not know.â
âThatâs not helpful.â
âLook, it doesnât have to be complicated. You either want to touch me or you donât. If you do, then when Iâm asleep, you can. If you donât, then you donât. Either way, I donât want to know about it.â
âWhy?â
âBecause then we can still be friends.â
âWeâre friends now.â
âYeah, but if I knew you touched me while I was asleep, it would change things.â
âItâs going to change things anyway.â
âNot if I donât know about it.â
Yoongi stares at you. âThatâs the most ridiculous logic Iâve ever heard.â
âIt makes sense to me.â
âNothing about you makes sense.â
You grin. âThatâs why you love me.â
âI donât love you.â
âYou tolerate me.â
âBarely.â
But thereâs something in his chest that twists when you smile at him like that. Something that makes him think maybe youâre not as crazy as you sound.
Maybe.
âSo?â you prompt. âWhat do you think?â
âI think youâre insane.â
âBut?â
âThere is no but.â
âThereâs always a but.â
Yoongi looks at youâreally looks at you.
At the way youâre watching him with hopeful eyes, like you actually think he might agree to this.
At the way youâre 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 youâd be completely vulnerable and defenseless.
Itâs fucked up.
Itâs alsoâŚ
âI need to think about it,â he says finally.
Your face lights up. âReally?â
âI didnât say yes.â
âBut you didnât say no.â
âIâm saying I need to think.â
âHow long?â
âHowever long it takes.â
âThatâs not an answer.â
âItâs the only answer youâre getting.â
Youâre practically vibrating with excitement now, and he immediately regrets not just saying no.
Because now youâre going to spend the next however-long pestering him about it, dropping hints and giving him looks like youâre sharing some kind of secret.
Which, he supposes, you are.
âThis doesnât mean anything,â he says quickly. âMe thinking about it. It doesnât mean Iâm going to do it.â
âI know.â
âIâm probably going to say no.â
âOkay.â
âI probably should say no.â
âProbably.â
âAny sane person would say no.â
âSane people are boring.â
He purses his lips together, lets out a loud sigh.
âIâm taking a shower,â he announces, setting his empty mug in the sink.
âThink about it,â you call after him as he heads toward the bathroom.
âIâm definitely not thinking about it in the shower.â
âWhy not? Thatâs when people do their best thinking.â
âIâm washing my hair. Not contemplating your weird sex fantasies.â
âTheyâre not weird!â
âTheyâre fucking bizarre!â
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.
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.
âž 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
âď¸ rundown ; You've always shared everything with your best friendâbeds, 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 partedâhe 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 personâI 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 lookâeveryone'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 judgmentâthose are valid fantasies to explore in safe fictional spaces, and purity/censorship culture can fuck right off. Fiction is not endorsement, and thereâs 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 âtheyâre 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?â And it's framed as sweet boyfriend behavior rather than... you know... a violation of consent that would be deeply fucked up in reality. ( ̄ď˝ďżŁ;) There's a difference between âI'm deliberately writing noncon/dubcon and we all know that's what this isâ (which again, valid) versus âI'm writing noncon/dubcon but pretending it's actually totally fine and normal and healthy.â One is honest about what it is. The other is... not great, actually. So when I decided I wanted to write somnophiliaâwhich is, let's be real, an inherently risky kink that exists in this fascinating space between trust and vulnerabilityâI 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 Chapterâ˘. I know, I know. You're probably thinking âgirl, I came here for the spicy unconscious touching, not an ethics seminar.â 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. â( ̄ă ̄;)â
You snore when youâre really tired.
Not loudâjust this soft, rhythmic sound that Yoongi finds moderately irritating and completely predictable.Â
Youâve 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 youâd been mid-scroll when consciousness finally gave up on you.
He should probably feel bad about letting you crash there.Â
You always complain about waking up twisted into shapes that shouldnât be anatomically possible, and then you spend the next morning being dramatic about it, stretching and groaning like youâve been hit by a truck.
But honestly? Thatâs your problem.
Youâre 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 youâd mentioned it earlier while picking through the Korean corn dogs youâd insisted on buying from that overpriced food truck downtown.
âItâs like being awake but trapped in concrete,â youâd said, stealing one of his pickled radishes despite having ordered your own. âCanât move, canât speak. Sometimes I see stuff that isnât there.â
Yoongi had made a noncommittal sound and continued eating, but heâd filed the information away like he always does when you mention something that might be important later.Â
Itâs not that he cares, exactly.
Itâs just that you have a tendency to undersell things that are actually problems, and heâs gotten good at reading between the lines.
Like how youâd said the market would be âjust a quick look aroundâ and then proceeded to drag him through every single stall, examining handmade jewelry and organic honey like you were conducting scientific research.Â
Or how youâd claimed you werenât 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.Â
Itâs annoying.Â
But itâs also been going on for so long that heâs developed a kind of automatic response systemâbuying extra food when you say youâre 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 youâre unconscious on his couch in a thin tank top thatâs riding up your back, and he knows that if he leaves you there, youâll 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, heâs not that lucky.
âUnbelievable,â he mutters, but heâs already standing up, already moving toward you with the resigned energy of someone whoâs done this before.Â
Youâre 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 youâve been using since college.
His bed is a single, which is a problem heâs been meaning to address for approximately three years now.
It made sense when he first moved inâcheaper, and itâs not like he had anyone to share it with anyway.Â
But you crash here often enough that the lack of space has become a legitimate inconvenience.
And on top of that, you sleep like youâre 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.Â
Which, at this point, you basically do.Â
You sleep here more often than you sleep at your own place, and youâve 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 heâd accept money from you anyway.Â
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.Â
But when he comes back, youâve somehow managed to spread out even more, one arm flung across the space where heâs 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 donât wake up.
Your leg bumps against his hip, and he gently pushes it back toward your side of the bedânot that there really is a âyour sideâ 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.Â
He should probably be more annoyed about it than he is.
The thing isâhe isnât.Â
But he wishes he was.Â
And now the room is way too darkâthough thereâs the faint glow of streetlights filtering through his blinds.Â
Youâve gone quiet now, no more snoring, just the hypnotic kind of rhythm of deep sleepâslower than usual, the kind of heavy, even pattern that means youâre really out.
Yoongi closes his eyes and tries to find a comfortable position that doesnât involve any part of his body touching any part of yours. Itâs 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. Youâre a space invader. A cover thief. A human starfish who somehow always ends up diagonal across the mattress by morning.
Heâs almost asleep when you say his name.
Not loud. Barely a whisper, really. But clear enough that thereâs no mistaking it.
âYoongi.â
His eyes snap open.
Youâre still facing him, on your side, still breathing deeply, clearly unconscious. But youâd said his name likeâ
Like what? Like you were calling for him?Â
Because it was not the way you usually say it when youâre awakeâsharp with irritation, or drawn out with amusement.Â
This was⌠different. Quieter. Like you were tasting the sound of it.
No. No, thatâs ridiculous. People say random things in their sleep all the time. It doesnât mean anything.Â
You probably werenât 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 likeâ
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.Â
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 donât say anything else. Just sleep on, peaceful and oblivious while his mind races.
This is weird as fuck.Â
Okay. So. You said his name in your sleep. People do that. It doesnât 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 didnât sound like any of those things.
It sounded like you were whimpering it.
âJesus Christ,â he whispers to the ceiling.
Now his brain is stuck on replay, turning that sound over and over until itâs 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 isnât that just great? Now heâs going to have to pretend he didnât hear it.Â
Tomorrow morning, when you wake up and stretch and complain about being stiff, heâs going to act like you didnât just make the most embarrassing sound possible while unconscious in his bed.
Great. Amazing. Really looking forward to that performance.
But alsoâand this is the part that makes him want to hang himselfâheâs replaying it. Again. The soft way you breathed his name, likeâŚ
Like okay. Heâs a healthy adult man. So really, itâs not like he can be blamed. He might be thinking about it. But thatâs justâthatâs just normal biological response to⌠whatever the hell that was.
You shift again, and your hand slides across the sheet, fingertips brushing his arm.Â
Even in sleep, youâre invading his space, taking more than your share of the mattress.
Typical.
And normal. Youâre asleep. People have weird dreams. It doesnât mean anything, and heâs definitely not going to think about it, and tomorrow morning heâll pretend this never happened because thatâs what normal friends do.
But lying there in the dark, Yoongi finds himself staring at the ceiling and wondering what the hell heâs supposed to do with the way his name sounds when you say it like that.
Nothing, he decides. Heâs going to do absolutely nothing with that information. Just pretend it didnât happen.
He closes his eyes and tries to sleep.Â
Yoongi wakes up with your foot in his ribs.
Youâre sprawled across his bed like youâre 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 somehowâsomehowâyouâve managed to steal most of his pillow.
This is why he doesnât share beds with you.
You sleep like youâre fighting invisible enemies.
He nudges your leg with his knee. âMove.â
You make a sound thatâs half-whine, half-growl and burrow deeper into his pillow.
âIâm serious. Get off me.â
âFive more minutes,â you mumble, voice thick with sleep.
âItâs my bed.â
âShared custody.â
He considers shoving you off the mattress entirely, but youâll just whine about it for the next hour, and he hasnât had coffee yet.Â
Heâs 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.Â
Something about you saying his name, which is stupid because you say his name all the time. Thereâs nothing significant about hearing it in a dream.
Except it hadnât felt like aâŚÂ dream.
âCoffee,â you announce from the doorway, bedhair all over the place which makes him almost snort (he doesnât), wearing his oversized t-shirt that you definitely stole from his dresser.
âMake your own.â
âYouâre already making some.â
âFor myself.â
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 thereâs a crease on your cheek from his pillowcase.
âYou kicked me,â you complain, stirring an obscene amount of sugar into your mug.
âYou were taking up the entire bed.â
âI was not.â
âYou had your foot in my kidney.â
âThatâs not my fault. You have a tiny bed.â
Yoongi takes a long sip of his coffee and decides not to engage.Â
Youâll 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, blinkingâand oh, oh he doesnât like that look at all.Â
âWhat?â he says.
âNothing.â
âYouâre staring.â
âIâm thinking.â
âDonât.â
You snort. âVery funny. I had an interesting dream last night.â
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.
âRiveting,â he says flatly.
âI dreamed you were touching me.â
Yoongi nearly chokes on his coffee.Â
Because what the fuck did you just say.
âWhat?â
âNot like that,â you say quickly, though thereâs something in your voice that suggests maybe it was exactly like that. âI mean, maybe like that. It was weird.â
âYouâre weird.â
âIâm serious.â You set down your mug and turn to face him fully. âIt got me thinking.â
âAlways dangerous.â
âShut up. Iâm trying to have a conversation here.â
âAbout your sex dreams. Hard pass.â
âIt wasnât a sex dream.â But youâre fidgeting now, picking at the hem of his shirt. âIt was just⌠touching. While I was asleep.â
Yoongi stares at you. âOkay?â
âDonât you think thatâs kind of⌠interesting?â
His eyes narrow to slits.
âI think you need therapy.â
âIâm being serious.â Youâre warming up to whatever point youâre trying to make, eyes getting brighter. âLike, the idea of being touched while youâre unconscious. Vulnerable. But safe.â
âThat sounds like something you should discuss with a professional.â
âOr with you.â
He sets down his coffee cup with more force than necessary.Â
âAbsolutely not.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause itâs fucking weird, thatâs why.â
âEverythingâs weird if you think about it too hard.â
âThis is weird without thinking about it at all.â
Youâre quiet for a moment, chewing on your lower lip.Â
He recognizes this lookâitâs the same expression you get when youâre about to suggest something monumentally stupid.
âBet youâve thought about it though,â you say finally.
Yoongi stares at you like youâre speaking in tongues.Â
Because seriouslyâthereâs no way.
Thereâs no way his perfectly sane (sometimes) best friend is literally suggesting what he thinks youâre suggesting.
âDid you hit your head when you fell off the bed this morning?â
âI didnât fall off the bed.â
âThen whatâs your excuse for this conversation?â
You lean forward, elbows on the counter. âIâm just saying, hypothetically, if someone wanted to try itââ
âWeâre not talking about this.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause itâs insane?â
âItâs not insane. Itâs just different.â
âItâs perverted.â
âYouâre being dramatic.â
Yoongi pinches the bridge of his nose. âI need more coffee for this.â
âIâm not asking you to do anything,â you say quickly. âIâm just⌠talking about it.â
âWell, stop.â
But you donât stop.Â
Because you never stop when you get an idea stuck in your head. Youâre like a dog with a bone, worrying at it until everyone around you wants to scream.
âI read about it online,â you continue, ignoring his obvious discomfort. âItâs called somnophilia. And itâs not that uncommon.â
âGreat. Wonderful. You learned a new word.â
âSome people find it really intimate. The trust aspect.â
âIâm leaving.â
âWhere are you going?â
âAnywhere that isnât here.â
You grab his arm as he tries to walk past you. âWait. Just⌠hear me out.â
âNo.â
âSixty seconds? Please. Thatâs all Iâm asking.â
âI said no.â
âYouâre not even curious? Not even a little bit?â
He looks down at your hand on his arm, then back at your face.
Youâre watching him with that stubborn expression that means youâre not going to let this go until he at least pretends to consider it.
âYouâre not serious,â he says finally.
âIâm dead serious.â
âYou want me to⌠what? Touch you while youâre asleep?â
âMaybe.â
âMaybe?â
âI donât know. Thatâs why I want to talk about it.â
Yoongi pulls his arm free and takes a step back. âThis is the stupidest conversation weâve ever had.â
âWeâve had stupider.â
âName one.â
âThat time you tried to convince me that cereal was soup.â
âCereal is soup.â
âSee? Stupider.â
Despite himself, Yoongi almost smiles. Almost. But then he remembers what youâre actually suggesting, and the moment passes.
âThis is different,â he says.
âHow?â
âBecause cereal doesnât involve me potentially assaulting you in your sleep.â
âItâs not assault if I ask for it.â
âItâs somethign.â
Youâre quiet for a moment, studying his face. âYouâre really freaked out by this.â
âOf course Iâm freaked out by this.â
âWhy?â
âBecause normal people donât ask their friends to molest them?â
âIâm not asking you to molest me! Iâm asking you to⌠explore a fantasy.â
âYour fantasy.â
âMaybe yours too.â
Yoongi stares at you.Â
âI donât have fantasies about unconscious people.â
âBut you have fantasies.â
âNot about you.â
âI didnât say they had to be about me,â you say defensively.
âThen what are we talking about?â
âI donât know.â Youâre fidgeting again, picking at the counter edge. âI just thought⌠we trust each other. It doesnât have to be weird.â
âItâs already weird.â
âOnly because youâre making it weird.â
âIâm making it weird?â
âYes.â
âYouâre the one who brought up getting touched in your sleep.â
âBecause I trust you.â
Silence.
Yoongi feels something twist in his chestâguilt, maybe, or responsibility.Â
The weight of being someoneâs safe person.
He sighs heavily. âWhat would⌠what would it involve?â
Your face lights up like you won the lottery. âReally?â
âI didnât say yes. Iâm asking what youâre even talking about.â
âRight. Okay.â Youâre practically bouncing now, hands gesturing as you talk. âSo the whole point is that Iâd be asleep. Completely unconscious. And you could⌠touch me.â
âTouch you how?â
âHowever you wanted.â
Yoongi stares at you. âThatâs not an answer.â
âI donât know! Thatâs the point. I wouldnât know what you did unless I woke up.â
âAnd if you woke up?â
âThen youâd stop. Obviously.â
âThat is insane.â
âItâs not insane. People do this.â
âNot people I know.â
âWell, now you know me.â
He runs a hand through his hair. âLet me get this straight. You want me toâŚÂ what? Grope you while youâre unconscious?â
âIf you wanted to.â
âWhat if I donât want to?â
You shrug. âThen you donât do anything. You just let me sleep.â
âAnd youâd never know either way.â
âThatâs the point.â
âWhat kind of point is that?â
âThe exciting kind.â Youâre leaning forward now, eyes bright with something that looks dangerously close to enthusiasm. âThink about it. Iâd go to sleep not knowing if you were going to touch me or not. And youâd know, but I wouldnât. Thereâs this wholeâŚÂ tension.â
âTension.â
âYeah. Like, maybe you did something. Maybe you didnât. Iâd never know for sure.â
Yoongi looks at you like youâve lost your fucking mind. âWhy would you want that?â
âBecause itâs exciting! The not knowing. The possibility.â
âYouâre fucked up.â
âIâm curious.â
âAbout being molested in your sleep.â
âAbout being desired,â you correct. âThereâs a difference.â
âIs there?â
âYes. If you touched me, it would be because you wanted to. Not because I was awake and asking for it.â
âThatâsâŚâ He stops, trying to process what you just said. âThatâs the most backwards logic Iâve ever heard.â
âIt makes sense to me.â
âNothing about this makes sense.â
Youâre quiet for a moment, chewing on your lower lip.Â
âYou donât have to do anything you donât want to do.â
âI donât want to do any of this.â
âOkay.â
âIâm serious.â
âI know.â
Silence, again.Â
He stares at the brown liquid swimming in his cup. Thinks about what youâre saying. Wonders why youâd want that at all.
But most importantlyâŚ
âWhy me?â he asks finally.
âWhat?â
âWhy are you asking me? There are other people. People who might actually be into this shit.â
âI donât trust other people.â
âYou shouldnât trust me either.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause Iâm a guy?â
âSo?â
âSo guys areâŚâ He gestures vaguely. âWe think about sex. A lot. More than we should.â
âI know.â
âAnd youâre asking me to touch you while youâre unconscious and canât say no.â
âBut Iâm saying yes now.â
âThatâs not how consent works.â
âIsnât it?â
Yoongi stares at you. âI donât know. Iâm not a lawyer.â
âYouâre overthinking this.â
âSomeone should.â
Youâre quiet again, but he can see the wheels turning in your headâthat conniving expression you get when youâre trying to convince him to watch some terrible movie you saw a trailer for.
âWhat if we had rules?â you say finally.
âRules.â
âYeah. Like, boundaries. Things you can and canât do.â
âThis is the part where you tell me what you actually want.â
You fidget with your coffee mug. âI want to not know.â
âThatâs not helpful.â
âLook, it doesnât have to be complicated. You either want to touch me or you donât. If you do, then when Iâm asleep, you can. If you donât, then you donât. Either way, I donât want to know about it.â
âWhy?â
âBecause then we can still be friends.â
âWeâre friends now.â
âYeah, but if I knew you touched me while I was asleep, it would change things.â
âItâs going to change things anyway.â
âNot if I donât know about it.â
Yoongi stares at you. âThatâs the most ridiculous logic Iâve ever heard.â
âIt makes sense to me.â
âNothing about you makes sense.â
You grin. âThatâs why you love me.â
âI donât love you.â
âYou tolerate me.â
âBarely.â
But thereâs something in his chest that twists when you smile at him like that. Something that makes him think maybe youâre not as crazy as you sound.
Maybe.
âSo?â you prompt. âWhat do you think?â
âI think youâre insane.â
âBut?â
âThere is no but.â
âThereâs always a but.â
Yoongi looks at youâreally looks at you.
At the way youâre watching him with hopeful eyes, like you actually think he might agree to this.
At the way youâre 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 youâd be completely vulnerable and defenseless.
Itâs fucked up.
Itâs alsoâŚ
âI need to think about it,â he says finally.
Your face lights up. âReally?â
âI didnât say yes.â
âBut you didnât say no.â
âIâm saying I need to think.â
âHow long?â
âHowever long it takes.â
âThatâs not an answer.â
âItâs the only answer youâre getting.â
Youâre practically vibrating with excitement now, and he immediately regrets not just saying no.
Because now youâre going to spend the next however-long pestering him about it, dropping hints and giving him looks like youâre sharing some kind of secret.
Which, he supposes, you are.
âThis doesnât mean anything,â he says quickly. âMe thinking about it. It doesnât mean Iâm going to do it.â
âI know.â
âIâm probably going to say no.â
âOkay.â
âI probably should say no.â
âProbably.â
âAny sane person would say no.â
âSane people are boring.â
He purses his lips together, lets out a loud sigh.
âIâm taking a shower,â he announces, setting his empty mug in the sink.
âThink about it,â you call after him as he heads toward the bathroom.
âIâm definitely not thinking about it in the shower.â
âWhy not? Thatâs when people do their best thinking.â
âIâm washing my hair. Not contemplating your weird sex fantasies.â
âTheyâre not weird!â
âTheyâre fucking bizarre!â
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.