jungkoode’s lab

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

Or maybe that’s just him.

“Breathe in.”

You do.

“Out.”

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

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

“But we’re not.”

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

He hasn’t moved it.

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

“I’m fine, doc.”

“You came back bleeding.”

“Barely.”

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

It’s not an accusation. 

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

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

His eyes flick up to yours.

Oh.

Yeah, he caught that.

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

Hoseok’s hand is still on your ribs.

You’re very aware of this fact.

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

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

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

But, somehow, today it feels different. 

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

“Hold still.”

“Trying.”

“Try harder.”

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

Fuck.

You blink. 

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

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

“Hoseok—”

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

But his hand doesn’t leave your face.

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

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

Bad idea.

Terrible idea.

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

“Where’s the fun in that?”

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

The usual nickname lands soft, intimate.

Too intimate.

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

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

How easy and how stupid.

“We shouldn’t,” he says quietly.

He doesn’t move his hand.

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

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

“You know what.”

Yeah.

You do.

“Then why are you still touching me?”

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

Watch the muscle in his jaw jump. 

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

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

“Hoseok—”

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

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

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

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

You should leave.

You’re going to leave.

“Goodnight, Hoseok.”

A pause.

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

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

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

The inventory request comes three days later.

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

It’s bullshit, obviously.

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

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

You show up at two on the dot.

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

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

“Hey.”

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

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

Liar.

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

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

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

You’re not getting close.

You’re absolutely getting close.

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

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

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

“And you need Cyber for this because…?”

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

Valid reason.

Still bullshit.

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

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

Not accidental.

“Okay, so what am I—”

His hand settles on your lower back.

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

You forget how to finish the sentence.

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

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

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

You should step away.

And yet, neither of you moves.

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

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

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

“Hoseok.”

“Hmm?”

“What are we doing?”

The question sits between you, heavy and unavoidable.

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

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

“Right. Inventory.”

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

He doesn’t step back.

Neither do you.

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

His breath catches audibly.

“Don’t—”

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

“Don’t make this impossible.”

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

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

“We can’t.”

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

“I shouldn’t be.”

“But you are.”

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

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

Not touching. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck.”

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

He doesn’t.

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

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

“Maybe I don’t want you to.”

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

“Don’t I?”

Your lips are still barely a breath apart. 

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

Can see the exact moment his control starts to splinter.

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

“Good.”

“That’s not—we can’t—”

“Can’t?”

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

The contact makes him inhale sharply. 

“Or shouldn’t?”

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

“Liar.”

He makes a sound that’s almost a laugh.

“You’re dangerous.”

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

“I should let go.”

“Should you?”

But neither of you moves.

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

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

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

“I—” His voice cracks. “Pip—”

“Tell me you don’t want this.”

He can’t.

You both know he can’t.

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

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

Footsteps in the corridor outside.

You both freeze.

The moment shatters.

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

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

The footsteps pass by.

Keep going.

Fade.

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

“Hoseok—”

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

“You won’t what?”

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

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

“What if I’m willing to risk it?”

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

“The inventory—”

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

You should argue.

Should push.

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

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Okay.”

You head for the door.

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

“Wait.”

You turn back.

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

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

“I know.”

You do know.

That’s what makes it worse.

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

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

The almost is becoming unbearable.

Something’s going to break soon.

It’s past two in the morning.

You shouldn’t be here.

You came anyway.

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

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

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

You find him in his office.

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

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

“Hoseok?”

He doesn’t turn around.

“You should be asleep.”

“So should you.”

“I’m working.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Was it bad?”

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

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

“Emergency?”

“Yeah.”

“Are they—”

“Stable. For now.” 

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

“What are you doing here, pip?”

“Checking on you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

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

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

“For what?”

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

He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

You take another step closer.

“How long have you been awake?”

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

“You need to rest.”

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

Liar.

You both know what he needs.

“Hoseok—”

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

“If I what?”

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

Desperate.

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

Your heart hammers.

“Maybe I want you to.”

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

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

“That’s not—”

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

His expression fractures.

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

He doesn’t finish.

Doesn’t need to.

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

“I know.”

“The rules exist for a reason.”

“I know that too.”

Neither of you moves away.

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

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

Fear.

Want.

Surrender.

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

“I don’t want to go back.”

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

“I’m serious.”

“Good.”

That’s what does it.

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

This is desperate.

This is surrender.

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

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

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

The sound goes straight through you.

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

“Yeah,” you manage. “Me too.”

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

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

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

The ‘please’ breaks something in him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I—”

“Yes.”

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

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

“Shut up.”

He almost smiles.

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

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

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

“Hoseok—”

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

And he is.

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

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

He does it again just to hear it.

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

The words send heat straight between your legs.

“Confident.”

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

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

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

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

“Fuck, you’re so wet already.”

“Your fault.”

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

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

The first touch, inevitably, makes you jolt.

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

He does.

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

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

“More?”

“Yes—please—”

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

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

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

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

He stops.

“What—”

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

“Hoseok—”

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

You believe him.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

“Like what you see?”

“Shut up.”

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

Then he pauses.

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

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

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

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

He groans.

“You’re so unfair.”

“Good thing you like it.”

His laugh is breathless.

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

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

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

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

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

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

“Good?” he grits out.

You nod quietly, watching the way he sinks in. 

“So good. More.”

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

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

“Move, please.”

And moving, he does. 

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

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

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

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

“Fuck.”

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

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

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

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

It just makes it hotter.

“Lay back,” he says suddenly.

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

“Give me your hands.”

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

“Oh god—”

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

“Yes—fuck—yes—”

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

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

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

“Hoseok—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can’t—I can’t—”

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

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

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

Permission granted, you shatter.

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

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

“Stomach,” you gasp. “Pull out—”

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

For a moment, neither of you moves.

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

What you’ve done.

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

“Yeah,” you manage. “I’m here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

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

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

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

“Drink.”

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

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

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

You drink half the bottle before pulling back.

“More,” he says gently.

“I’m okay—”

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

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

Except you’re not just a patient anymore.

And he’s not just your doctor.

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

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

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

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

He laughs, but it’s shaky.

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

“I know.”

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

“Me neither.”

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

“We could get in serious trouble.”

“I know.”

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

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

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

“Neither do I.”

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

A promise.

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

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

“I know.”

“The rules—”

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

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

And you can’t bring yourself to regret it.

Not even a little bit.

Morning tastes like regret and instant coffee.

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

How to make coffee without his hands shaking.

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

The way you asked him to.

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

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

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

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

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

Like he doesn’t know what you taste like.

“You’re an angel.”

Not an angel. Far from it.

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

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

The way you took him.

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

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

The way you asked him never to tell you.

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

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

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

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

Now that he knows what you feel like.

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

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

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

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

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

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

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

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

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

“Mattress is uncomfortable,” he lies.

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

“Yoongi.”

“What.”

“Did you fuck me?”

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

If you weren’t hoping he’d say yes.

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

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

“Right. The rules.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

What it was always about.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

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

“Forget I said anything.”

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

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

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

The way you wanted him, even unconscious.

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

The question stops him cold.

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

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

“What are you talking about?”

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

He sees the way your eyes go red-rimmed.

Then a tear falls.

Then another.

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

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

“I don’t understand—”

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

“You are my best friend—”

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

“Stop.”

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

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

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

“I did fuck you.”

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

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

“What?”

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

Your breath catches.

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

“Yoongi—”

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

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

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

“It’s not—”

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

He swallows, words choking out on his throat.

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

The tears come then, hot and angry and shameful.

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

What he is.

What he’s always been.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Felt like it.”

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

“You wanted me to want you.”

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

“Why?”

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

The words land right across his chest.

Because there’s no way you just said that.

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

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

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Because I just told you I—”

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

“I told you I’m a monster.”

“You told me you’re human.”

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

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

What he’s capable of.

“I don’t understand.”

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

“But you trusted me.”

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

“I used you.”

“I asked you to use me.”

“I could have hurt you.”

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

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

Maybe he just became what you needed him to become.

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

“That doesn’t mean—”

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

“You’re not fucked up.”

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

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

If anything, it makes him love you more.

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

“Yeah.”

“And we’re both in love.”

“Apparently.”

“And I did fuck you last night.”

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

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

“Thing?”

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

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

Like you’ve always belonged there.

“I’m sorry,” he says into your hair.

“For what?”

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

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

“We’re idiots.”

“The biggest idiots.”

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

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

“So what happens now?” you ask eventually.

“I don’t know.”

“Can I stay?”

“You’re always staying.”

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he says. “You can stay.”

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

“Presumptuous.”

“I know what I want.”

“And what’s that?”

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

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

So many ways to want each other.

“All the ways,” he agrees.

“Good.”

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

It tastes like forgiveness.

Like coming home.

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

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

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

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

“I love you too.”

“Even knowing what I did?”

“Especially knowing what you did.”

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

The only outcome that matters.

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

“We just got up.”

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

“Three years is a lot.”

“Good thing we have time.”

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

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

“Anything.”

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

“There’s going to be a next time?”

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

“But next time we talk about it afterwards.”

You smile. “Yeah, we do.”

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

Like you want him to devour you right back.

“What’s your question?”

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

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

“I can do that.”

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

“Remember what?”

“How it feels when you love me.”

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

Loving you.

The only way you’d let him until now.

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

Can love you the way you both deserve.

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

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

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

It feels like dreaming.

©️ kikiskook aka @jungkoode 2025.

do not translate. do not repost.

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

The one that means you’re planning something.

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

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

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

“You’re never just nice.”

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

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

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

Then: “Have you thought about it?”

“Thought about what?”

“You know what.”

He does know.

Has thought about almost nothing else for weeks now.

But he’s not about to admit that.

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

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

“That’s the same thing.”

“It’s really not.”

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

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

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

It’s so quintessentially you he almost groans.

“So?” you prompt. “Have you?”

“Have I what?”

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

“You said you didn’t want to know.”

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

“There’s nothing hypothetical about it.”

“So you have thought about it.”

He wants to throw the japchae at you.

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

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

Like you’ve always known.

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

“Why not?”

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

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

“Not that big.”

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

Yoongi nearly chokes on his food.

“What?”

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

“They’re really not.”

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

“I’m not stressed.”

“You’re definitely stressed.”

“I’m eating japchae.”

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

The question catches him off guard.

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

“I’m fine,” he says.

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

“I know.”

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

“It wasn’t too much.”

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

“Then don’t.”

“I’m just curious.”

“You’re always curious.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

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

You’re quiet for a moment, considering.

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

“That’s the point.”

“It’s frustrating.”

“Good.”

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

“Didn’t stop you from befriending me.”

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

“About what?”

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

“Evidence.”

“You know what I mean.”

He does know.

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

The kind of person he is.

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

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

“No, you can’t.”

“But I want to.”

“I know you do.”

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

Yoongi nearly drops his chopsticks.

“What?”

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

He stares at you.

Because of course.

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

Of course you’d get it.

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

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

“That’s not how quantum mechanics works.”

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

“I’m not mansplaining—”

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

“Exciting.”

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

Yoongi doesn’t know what to say to that.

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

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

That you like the uncertainty.

“You’re weird,” he says finally.

“You’re weirder.”

“I’m really not.”

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

“You asked me to not tell you.”

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

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

“Consensual murder.”

“That’s just assisted suicide.”

“Consensual robbery.”

“That’s called a gift.”

“Consensual assault.”

“That’s BDSM.”

“Okay, but consensual cannibalism,” you say.

“That’s just Hannibal.”

“Consensual haunting.”

“That’s called being a roommate.”

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

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

It’s annoying.

He’s used to it.

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

"Mmm."

"You're so talkative tonight."

"I'm eating."

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

"Then stop trying to have conversations during meals."

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

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

"Closet."

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

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

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

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

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

Dead again.

"Bullshit."

He tries again.

And again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Mmm."

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

"I'm busy."

"Busy losing at Candy Crush?"

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

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

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

This is stupid.

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

He’s stupid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yoongi sighs and shifts away, closer to the wall.

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

It's fine. Normal.

He's used to it.

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

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

And his phone drops directly onto his face.

"Fuck—"

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

Because what the fuck.

What the fuck.

You're wearing a red thong.

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

When did you—how did you—

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

So when the hell did you change into this?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he doesn't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doesn't mean you wore it on purpose.

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

Right?

...Right?

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

Or a lobotomy.

Whichever comes first.

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

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

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

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

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

Then he stops.

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

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

Because what the fuck is he doing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe he’s always been like this.

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

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

At you.

At the red thong.

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

Bites his lip hard enough to sting.

Okay. Okay. He’s doing this.

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

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

His forehead drops to the mattress.

Jesus fucking Christ.

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

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

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

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

Until now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s good.

It makes him feel sick.

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

But he doesn't stop.

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

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

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

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

What the fuck is he doing?

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

No.

No.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still asleep. Still trusting.

Still his to touch.

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

Tries to think.

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck it.

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

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

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

Then the condom problem hits him like cold water.

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

His brain spirals, panic rising in his chest.

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

Like now. Right fucking now.

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

Takes one out. Stares at it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He freezes, cock barely inside you, and waits.

Your breathing evens out again. Your face relaxes.

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

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

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

Holy fuck.

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

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

And you have no idea.

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

His secret.

His sin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is you.

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

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

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

And before he can even stop his stupid fucking self—

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

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

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

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

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

Hasn’t been able to for over a decade.

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

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

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

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

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

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

At the evidence of what he's become.

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

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

Then panic sets in.

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

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

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

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

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

Grabs the foil wrapper from the nightstand.

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

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

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

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

What the fuck is wrong with him?

No answer. Just his reflection, damning and silent.

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

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

And he—

He can't sleep.

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

«I love you.»

He said it.

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

Even if it doesn't count.

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

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

The worst part is that he meant it.

©️ kikiskook aka @jungkoode 2025.

do not translate. do not repost.