comment or reblog to be tagged when i post the first part âĄ
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 whole⌠tension.â
âď¸ rundown ; Youâve always shared everything with your best friendâbeds, clothes, sleep, silence. But one day, you offer him something else: yourself. Unconscious. âDo whatever you want,â you say. âJust donât tell me.â At first, heâs stunned. Heâs 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?
genre ; best friends to lovers | somnophilia kink | nsfw | angst
⌠yoongi x y/n
⌠word count ; 20k+ | 18+
⌠5-part miniseries
⌠playlist | moodboard | read on ao3
⌠tag: #moond
⌠completed
warnings ; explicit content, consensual somnophilia, guilt, emotional repression, unspoken love, sleep sex, obsession, and yoongi not coping well
a/n ; i donât know who to blame for this one, so iâm blaming Yoongi for being a hot motherfucker. i have no idea why heâs always the scapegoat for the most morally questionable shit i write, but here we are. i think this idea hit me when Raven (@shadowkoo) made me choose kinks on main, and i saw âconsensual somnophiliaâ and was likeâwait⌠iâve actually never read anything like that??? so here we are, in my side blog, where i explore themes and topics shamelessly. itâs going to be five parts because i decided this one deserved to be a mini-series. think of it as my little experiment in writing kinks iâve never explored in my main fics. hope youâre excitedâthough i already know you are, horny gremlins. <3
01. ě ě | SINWOL (new moon) ; 3,9k
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.
02. ě´ěš | CHOSEUNG (waxing crescent) ; 4,3k
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.
03. ë°ëŹ | BANDAL (half moon) ; 4,4k
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.
04. ěí | SANGHYEON (waxing gibbous) ; 5,7k
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.
05. ë§ě | MANWOL (full moon) ; 3k
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.
April Dev Log: New Roadmap, Developing Sooha Route, PC Version, and Season 3 Updates
Hello, Finders! April is in full bloom! We canât believe half the year is almost gone... This has to be a joke, right?!
Anyway, letâs dive into the April Development Diary!!
đşď¸ New Roadmap
Our development schedule has been updated, so Weâd like to share the revised roadmap with you! Our goal is to wrap up the Moonlight Dialogue journey within this year. đđťââď¸ Please understand that schedules are subject to change due to unforeseen circumstances, but as always, we will do our absolute best to stick to this roadmap!
Soundđ: 50% Complete (Remaining: Voice recording for specific characters, SFX, and direction)
TranslationđĄ: 20% Complete
You might notice that progress hasnât moved as much since last month... ă ă That's because we are currently running QA for the PC version simultaneously! Weâll make sure the PC version launches on time according to the roadmap.
đSeason 3: In Progress
Scenarioâď¸: 40% Complete
Programmingđ ď¸: 5% Complete
Artđ¨: 30% Complete
Soundđ: 20% Complete
TranslationđĄ: 20% Complete
Work on Season 3âwhere youâll experience the common routes and endings for Yuchae and Seojunâis also underway! We canât wait to share our characters' stories with all of you Finders. My goal is to focus heavily on the scenario throughout May and complete all voice recordings by June!! Weâll do my best to balance this with my main job so We stay healthy and avoid any delays!
Other Stories
My niece painted a tote bag for Earth Day (April 22nd) at school, and she gave it to me as a gift, saying she thought of Moonlight Dialogue while making it! đ She hasn't played the whole game yet, but I guess the loading screen left a big impression on her, haha. It was so cute that I just had to share it with you all.
Lastly, hereâs a little sneak peek of a cropped image from Sooha's route!!
All the artwork for Sooha's route is officially finished!! There are so many amazing pieces that I'm dying to show you. 𼚠Iâll keep working hard for the next month as well! â¤ď¸âđĽâ¤ď¸âđĽâ¤ď¸âđĽâ¤ď¸âđĽ
Auf den ersten Blick kÜnnte man meinen, du bist meilenweit entfernt. Du scheinst so weit weg zu sein, dass es beinahe beängstigend ist. Doch wenn man sich Zeit und Energie nimmt, und genug von beidem investiert, kann man ßber das Augenscheinliche hinaus sehen.
Auch wenn du zunächst kalt und leblos erscheinst, bist du die Quelle von so viel Licht und Bewegung. Du bist die groĂe Kraft, die meine Welt in Schwung hält. Und der Einzige, der das nicht sieht, bist du. Manche Leute denken, du bist fade und langweilig, sie tun mir Leid. Sie sehen dich nicht so wie ich. Sie investieren nicht die Zeit und Energie, die ich investiere. Und sie werden nie erfahren, wie viel mehr tu mir im Gegenzug zurĂźckgibst. Dich zu sehen, lässt mein Herz hĂźpfen. Aber so hoch mein Herz springt wenn ich dich sehe, so tief sinkt es wenn du verschwindest. Die ersten paar Male als Du verschwunden bist war ich noch besorgt, dass Du nicht zurĂźckkommen wĂźrdest. Jetzt weiĂ ich, dass du nie wirklich verschwindest. Du bist immer bei mir.
Du bist nicht wie die Sonne, nicht blendend und irritierend. Du bist da, wenn du gebraucht wirst. Du leuchtest nicht, wo bereits Licht ist. Du lebst absichtlich in der Dunkelheit, um dort zu leuchten, wo es am meisten gebraucht wird. Es bricht mir das Herz, dass die Leute Dir nicht die Anerkennung geben, die Du verdienst. Aber vielleicht geht es nur mir so. Dir macht das nichts aus, oder? Denn du bist mutiger als alle anderen zusammen. Fßr dich ist das Alltag, fßr jeden anderen wäre es seelenzerfetzend.
Das Beste daran? Oder eher das Schlimmste ist, dass du das ganze Licht, das du den Menschen gibst, nicht sehen kannst. Nur weil einige heller leuchten als du, heiĂt das nicht, dass sie wichtiger sind. Du leuchtest dort, wo es wichtiger ist. Wenn du dich bewegst, bewegst du die Welt mit dir. Du bist unentbehrlich. Du bist der Mond.
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.
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 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.
