#moond

01. 신월 | 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. 초승 | 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. 반달 | 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. 상현 | 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. 만월 | 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.

©️ kikiskook aka @jungkoode 2025.

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.

It becomes a thing.

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

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

Watching you sleep.

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

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

Always does.

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

Which is, apparently, none.

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

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

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

You never wake up. Never even stir.

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

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

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

Still feels like something he should be ashamed of.

Is ashamed of, technically.

Just not enough to stop.

Then one day you brought it up again.

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

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

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

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

“That thing we talked about.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s a problem.

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

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

It drives him insane.

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

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

Everything, you had said.

Everything.

He wishes that everything meant nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, he needs a lobotomy.

Why did he agree to this?

Most importantly, why the fuck did he do it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

What kind of person does that make him?

What kind of monster, rather?

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

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

“I won’t complain.”

“Promise?”

“Just pick something.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except it does mean something, and he knows it.

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

“Better?” he asks, voice slightly brittle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You picked it.”

“I like trash. Trash is comforting.”

“That explains our friendship.”

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

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

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

“I’m not being weird.”

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

“Maybe I’m evolving.”

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

No.

He’s not okay.

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

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

“Watch your show.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

What if you want him to break?

Is that what you’re trying to do here?

“I think I’m gonna crash here tonight,” you announce during a commercial break, as if this wasn’t always the plan.

As if you ever intended to go back to your own apartment.

He knows you wouldn’t.

“Fine.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Would it matter if I did?”

You grin up at him, popsicle stick still between your lips. “Nope.”

Of course it wouldn’t.

You’ve been making yourself at home in his space for years, treating his apartment like an extension of your own.

The only thing that’s changed is his awareness of it.

“You’re gonna fall asleep on my lap,” he says, because you’re already looking drowsy. The heat and the sugar crash from the popsicle are making your eyelids heavy.

“Maybe.”

“Then I’ll be stuck here all night.”

“Poor you.”

“I’ll get a crick in my neck.”

“I’ll give you a massage tomorrow.”

He doesn’t know why the offer makes something curl in his stomach. It’s innocent, casual, nothing to get his panties in a twist over.

But he can picture it too easily—your hands on his shoulders, working out the knots and tension. Your fingers on his skin, careful and thorough and completely trusting.

He wonders if you’d make those soft sounds while you worked.

If you’d bite your lip in concentration the way you do when you’re focused on something.

If you’d let him return the favor.

“Just go to bed when you get tired,” he says instead.

“But I’m comfortable here.”

“You’ll be more comfortable in an actual bed.”

“Your bed or the couch?”

The question shouldn’t matter. You’ve slept in both places dozens of times. But now there’s weight to it, implication that makes his pulse kick up.

“Wherever you want.”

“Hmm.” You suck on the popsicle stick, getting the last traces of flavor, and Yoongi has to look away. “I’ll decide later.”

Later.

When you’re tired and pliant and trusting enough to fall asleep wherever you land. When he’ll have to make the choice between leaving you alone or taking what you offered him weeks ago.

What you keep offering him, night after night, with every position you sleep in and every piece of clothing you don’t wear.

He just sighs, lets you get away with it because when it comes to you that’s just what he does. Every time.

And then, at some point, your breathing deepens, evens out. Head heavy against his thigh, body going limp in that boneless way that means you’re really out. Not just dozing. Actually asleep.

The wooden stick dangles from your slightly parted lips.

Yoongi forces his attention back to the television.

Two women arguing about someone’s boyfriend, dramatic music swelling as one storms off stage.

See? He can do this. He’s a normal human being sitting on his couch watching reality TV while his best friend sleeps in his lap.

Nothing weird about it.

Nothing perverted or wrong.

That thing two weeks ago—that was just arousal. Heat of the moment. Some fucked-up horny impulse his brain conjured up because he’s been stressed and you’d been asking him weird questions about consent and somnophilia.

But he’s normal. He’s not a creep.

He’s fine.

His eyes drift down to your face and catch on the stick.

It’s going to fall. Slip right out of your mouth and onto his jeans, leaving a sticky residue that’ll be impossible to explain tomorrow.

You always fall asleep with things in your mouth—pens, straws, your own fingers when you’re really tired.

Oral fixation, you’d joked once, like it was funny instead of distracting.

He should remove it. Basic courtesy. You’d do the same for him.

Yoongi reaches down and carefully pinches the end of the stick between his fingers. Your lips part slightly as he slides it free, mouth staying open in a soft ‘o’ that makes something twist low in his stomach.

When did your lips get so plump?

They’re swollen from the cold, glistening with traces of cherry syrup. Red and wet and slightly parted, like you’re waiting for something. Like you’re inviting him to—

No.

Absolutely fucking not.

He drops the stick on the coffee table and looks back at the TV. Focuses on the manufactured drama, the fake tears, the scripted arguments designed to keep people watching.

But then his eyes drift back. Catch the way your tongue darts out to wet your lips in sleep. The way your mouth stays open, soft and accessible and so fucking ready it makes his chest tight.

Jesus Christ, why is he getting hard?

Not because of you. Not because you’re sleeping in his lap with your mouth open like some kind of invitation. It’s just biology. Random arousal that has nothing to do with the way you look right now—defenseless and trusting and completely unaware of what you’re doing to him.

Your head shifts slightly, settles deeper into his thigh. Closer to where his cock is starting to strain against his jeans.

This is fine. This is normal. Friends sleep on each other all the time.

The fact that your warm breath is ghosting across his leg doesn’t mean anything. The fact that your lips are still parted, still glistening, still looking like they’re begging to be touched—

That doesn’t mean anything either.

But Jesus your mouth—

It’s right there. Right fucking there, inches from his cock, open and inviting and completely unconscious.

And your lips looked so good wrapped around that popsicle, and the way your tongue worked around the edges was criminal and he can’t even comment on the soft sucking noises because otherwise he’ll pop a full-on boner.

«Everything. Oral, penetration, all of it.»

The only rule is not to tell you.

Well, this would definitely qualify.

Your breathing is deep and even, completely relaxed. Dead to the world, the way you always are when you crash at his place.

He could unzip his jeans right now. Could free his cock and brush it against your lips, see if you’d react in your sleep. See if you’d part them wider, if you’d make those soft sounds from your dreams.

He could fuck your mouth slow and careful, use you the way you asked him to use you, and you’d never know it happened.

Unless you woke up.

Then he would absolutely stop, because that’s the boundary you set. And he’d be mortified and he’d try to crawl into a fucking hole for the rest of his life.

Long live to buried Min Yoongi, he guesses.

But the thing is—you won’t wake up. You never do. You sleep like the dead when you’re comfortable, and you’re always comfortable here. In his space, wearing his clothes, trusting him not to take advantage even though you literally asked him to take advantage.

The contradiction makes his head spin.

Your lips part a little wider as you exhale, and Yoongi bites back a groan.

Because this is what you wanted, isn’t it? This exact situation.

You unconscious and vulnerable while he decides what to do with the permission you gave him.

Permission to touch you however he wants.

Permission to use your sleeping body for his own pleasure.

Permission to find out what your mouth feels like wrapped around his cock.

His hand moves to his zipper before he can stop himself, fingers trembling as he eases it down.

You don’t stir. Don’t even twitch.Just keep breathing soft and even against his thigh while he frees his cock from his jeans.

It’s already hard, already leaking, and the sight of it so close to your parted lips makes him dizzy with want.

All he has to do is shift slightly. Angle his hips. Guide himself between your lips and—

Your tongue darts out again, unconscious reflex, and barely grazes the head of his cock.

He bites down hard on his knuckles, to the point he only realizes he’s bleeding from the taste of copper on his mouth.

Holy fucking fuck.

Your tongue is warm and wet and softer than anything has a right to be, and the fact that you did it in your sleep—that you touched him without knowing, without meaning to—makes it somehow more intense.

More wrong.

More perfect.

There should be a form for this. Some kind of demonic contract contract he could sign in triplicate to expedite the whole damnation process, skip the middleman, go straight to whatever circle of hell is reserved for best friends who get hard from their sleeping friend’s accidental tongue contact.

Probably a new circle. One they’ll have to commission specifically for him.

The ninth-and-a-half circle, maybe. For people who had explicit consent but still feel like absolute garbage about it.

Population: one.

And the wild part—the part that really just annihilates whatever’s left of his moral center—is that you asked for this. Looked him dead in the eye over coffee and suggested he use your unconscious body however he wanted.

Who does that?

You're asleep two inches from his cock and it's somehow entirely his fault and entirely yours, and his brain is doing somersaults trying to figure out how both things can be true simultaneously.

Schrödinger's pervert.

Perverted and not perverted until someone observes the situation and collapses the waveform.

Except no one's observing. Just him and you and the dark apartment and the choice he's about to make.

Has already made, really. The second he freed his cock. The second he angled himself close enough to feel your breath on sensitive skin.

There's no going back from this.

Hell can wait, apparently. Has to. Because his body's already moving, hips shifting forward, and the first touch of your lower lip against the head of his cock whites out every coherent thought in his skull.

Warm. Soft. Wet from where your tongue unconsciously dampened them.

It shouldn’t feel this good. It shouldn’t feel this fucking right, for fuck’s sake.

But it does.

God, it does.

He guides himself between your lips with shaking fingers. Just the tip. Just enough to feel the wet heat of your mouth, the way your tongue rests soft and still against him.

It's too much, the trust radiating from your sleeping form. The way you stay under, breathing deep and even like the tide pulling out. Like you're anchored to some rhythm he can't reach.

He thinks about the way you curl up in his bed sometimes, how you take up all the space and none of it at the same time.

How you glow silver in the streetlight through his blinds.

Manwol. Whole moon.

And he's doing this to you, and it’s better than every fantasy he's had. Better than jerking off while staring at your sleeping form. Better than anything.

And that's the problem, isn't it?

That it feels this good. That his body is screaming yes while his brain scrambles for purchase on something that isn't slick guilt and hotter want.

He pushes in another inch, slow and careful and basically fighting every instinct telling him to thrust deeper, to take—

But he can't. Won't. You'd choke. You'd wake. And then this ends, and he'd have to look at you knowing he couldn't even do this right.

Your tongue shifts against him—completely involuntary—and he slides his free hand to your jaw. Fingers gentle. Steadying. Not forcing. Never that.

Just holding you while he takes what you offered weeks ago in his kitchen with a mug of coffee and a smile like a dare.

Another inch. Then another, but still shallow. Can't go deep. Shouldn't. The angle's wrong and your throat would seize and then you'd jerk awake with tears in your eyes and—

Stop thinking.

The shallow thrusts are enough. More than enough.

He pulls back, pushes in, finds a pace that's careful and desperate at the same time.

Enough to feel you, not enough to hurt you.

Enough to chase the high, not enough to shatter the fantasy.

He fumbles once, going a bit too deep, a bit too fast.

Your eyebrows draw together, face scrunching slightly, and he freezes.

Heart hammering. Cockhead resting between your lips. Waiting for your eyes to snap open, for you to pull away, for this to end in the worst possible way—

But you don't wake.

Just settle back into sleep with his cock still between your lips like it belongs there.

Jesus Christ.

He starts moving again. Has to. Can't stop now even if he wanted to, and he doesn't—doesn't—want to stop. Wants to keep feeling your mouth around him, wants to memorize every detail of this moment because tomorrow you'll wake up with no memory and he'll have to carry this alone.

Shallow thrusts again, controlled, careful.

You take him so well.

So fucking good even asleep.

He wonders—just for a second—what it would be like if you were awake. If you were looking up at him with those eyes, mouth full of his cock, maybe teasing him about finally giving in. Maybe asking for more. Maybe—

The fantasy bursts so bright behind his eyelids he has to tilt his head back, teeth sinking deeper into his knuckles to choke back the groan trying to claw its way out.

Would you moan around him? Would you look at him while he fucked your mouth, eyes half-lidded and knowing? Would you tease him after, say something like “You liked that, didn’t you?” like you hadn’t been the one begging for it?

He feels the weight settle on his chest.

The knowledge that he’s the only one who’ll ever know how you feel like this.

How your lips feel around his cock.

How your tongue molds to the shape of him.

How your eyebrows scrunch when he loses it a little.

You’ll wake up tomorrow with no idea.

No memory of his cock in your mouth.

No clue how perfectly you took him.

And he hates that he likes that.

Hates that the secrecy is starting to feel like a drug.

Hates that the thought of you never knowing makes his pulse spike.

Hates that he’s already wondering when he’ll get to do this again.

But he does.

He likes it.

Fucking likes it.

The private knowledge. The stolen intimacy. The fact that this—this—is something only he gets to have. Something you gave him and only him, even if you don’t remember giving it.

He feels sick.

He feels heady.

He feels wanton.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t want to stop.

His orgasm builds fast. Too fast. Coiling tight in his gut, threatening to snap.

Your mouth is perfect. Warm. Wet. Yielding.

Not his. Never his.

But known.

Felt.

Had.

And that’s enough.

More than enough.

But he can’t—

Can’t finish like this.

Because doing so would likely mean you waking up with cum in your mouth—and if he’s falling down this rabbit hole already, he’s honoring your rule.

You don’t want to know if he does any of this.

So he pulls out fast, cock slipping from your lips with an obscene wet sound that makes his whole body clench. Your mouth stays open for a second—confused, seeking—before your lips close and you settle back into sleep.

Unaware. Still gone.

His hand wraps around his cock immediately, grip tight and desperate, and he jerks himself with quick brutal strokes. No finesse. No control. Just the raw need to finish what your mouth started.

His other hand cups your jaw. Steadies you. Angles your face toward him and—

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck—

He comes with a muffled groan, head tilted back, as he spills across your face. Hot ropes of cum paint your cheek, your lips, the bridge of your nose. 

And you don’t even know.

Don’t stir. Don’t wake. Just keep breathing soft and even while evidence of what he’s done drips down your skin.

The sight hits him like a fist to the chest.

You look—

God, you look obscene. Messy and marked and so fucking pretty it makes something crack open behind his ribs. Your lips are still slightly parted, glistening with spit and traces of him. Your cheek is flushed from sleep and heat, streaked white where he came on you.

What the fuck did he just do?

His hand trembles as he releases his cock, lets it hang half-hard and spent between his legs. Can’t look away from your face. From the proof of his depravity painted across your sleeping features.

You wanted him to do this, he knows, he reminds himself of that fact.

But looking at you now—sweet and trusting and completely unaware—makes his stomach twist with something that feels dangerously close to shame.

Yoongi forces himself to move. Leans sideways toward the coffee table without jostling your head too much. His fingers find the drawer handle, ease it open with minimal sound.

Baby wipes. Pack of them shoved in the back corner because you’re always leaving your makeup on when you crash here and he got tired of you complaining about breakouts.

He pulls one free. Then another. Holds them in his fist while he stares down at you, trying to figure out how to do this without waking you.

Mouth still soft and parted. Breathing steady as a metronome.

Trusting him. Even now. Especially now.

He brings the wipe to your cheek first. Touches so gently it barely registers as contact. Wipes away the evidence like you’re made of moon dust.

Like you might blink awake if he presses too hard.

The wipe comes away streaked and damp, and he folds it over, keeps going. Your nose next. He wipes it clean and steady even though his pulse is hammering.

Your lips are the hardest part.

He should just—wipe them off. Quick and efficient. Get rid of the proof and move on.

But his hand hovers there for a long moment, frozen by the sight of your mouth glistening with traces of him.

So fucking pretty.

He cleans your lips with the edge of the wipe, dragging it slow across the plump swell of them. Your breath hitches—tiny response, unconscious—and he freezes again.

Waiting. Heart in his throat.

But once again, you don’t wake. Just exhale soft and even.

Pretty. You’re so fucking pretty like this.

Not some unattainable fantasy. Not the best friend he’s supposed to keep his hands off. Just you, soft and warm and real in his lap, face clean and peaceful like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t just use your mouth and come on your face and wipe away the evidence.

Like he’s not the kind of person who would do that to someone he—

Don’t.

Don’t finish that thought. Don’t make this worse.

His chest constricts. Tightens until breathing feels like work. Until the weight of what he’s done settles into his bones and refuses to leave.

You asked for this. Wanted it. Gave him permission to do whatever he wanted while you slept.

So why does it feel like he just broke something he can’t fix?

He crumples the wipes in his fist. Tucks them into his pocket because he can’t can’t risk waking you now.

He tucks himself back into his jeans with shaking hands, zips up, tries to breathe normally.

You shift slightly in his lap. Turning your face into his thigh, hand curling under your cheek like you’re burrowing deeper into sleep. Seeking warmth. Comfort.

From him.

Like you miss him already.

Like you want him back.

Completely unaware of what just happened.

Of what he just did to you.

With you.

For you.

Because of you.

And tomorrow you'll wake up and stretch and complain about sleeping on the couch, and he'll make you coffee and pretend this never happened.

Because that's what you wanted. The not-knowing. The uncertainty.

The permission to want him without having to admit it.

And the truth—the real truth, the one he can't say out loud—is that he's been thinking about this every day since you asked. Turning it over in his mind during quiet moments, imagining what it would feel like, hating himself for wanting it.

The truth is that he just lived it.

And the truth is that he's already planning the next time.

©️ kikiskook aka @jungkoode 2025.

do not translate. do not repost.

You snore when you’re really tired.

Not loud—just this soft, rhythmic sound that Yoongi finds moderately irritating and completely predictable. 

You’ve been doing it for the past twenty minutes, face-down on his couch with one leg hanging off the edge and your phone still clutched in your hand like you’d been mid-scroll when consciousness finally gave up on you.

He should probably feel bad about letting you crash there. 

You always complain about waking up twisted into shapes that shouldn’t be anatomically possible, and then you spend the next morning being dramatic about it, stretching and groaning like you’ve been hit by a truck.

But honestly? That’s your problem.

You’re a grown adult who chose to faceplant onto his couch instead of walking the extra ten feet to his bed.

Except you also get that weird sleep paralysis thing when you sleep on couches, and you’d mentioned it earlier while picking through the Korean corn dogs you’d insisted on buying from that overpriced food truck downtown.

“It’s like being awake but trapped in concrete,” you’d said, stealing one of his pickled radishes despite having ordered your own. “Can’t move, can’t speak. Sometimes I see stuff that isn’t there.”

Yoongi had made a noncommittal sound and continued eating, but he’d filed the information away like he always does when you mention something that might be important later. 

It’s not that he cares, exactly.

It’s just that you have a tendency to undersell things that are actually problems, and he’s gotten good at reading between the lines.

Like how you’d said the market would be ‘just a quick look around’ and then proceeded to drag him through every single stall, examining handmade jewelry and organic honey like you were conducting scientific research. 

Or how you’d claimed you weren’t hungry but then ate half his food when yours turned out to be disappointing.

You do this thing where you minimize your own needs while simultaneously expecting him to anticipate them anyway. 

It’s annoying. 

But it’s also been going on for so long that he’s developed a kind of automatic response system—buying extra food when you say you’re not hungry, keeping spare phone chargers around for when yours inevitably dies, pretending not to notice when you use his Netflix account more than he does.

Now you’re unconscious on his couch in a thin tank top that’s riding up your back, and he knows that if he leaves you there, you’ll wake up tomorrow feeling like garbage and probably blame him for not moving you.

He sighs. Loudly. Just in case your subconscious is listening and wants to take this opportunity to wake up and relocate itself.

Of course, he’s not that lucky.

“Unbelievable,” he mutters, but he’s already standing up, already moving toward you with the resigned energy of someone who’s done this before. 

You’re heavier than you look, and completely limp, which makes maneuvering you off the couch more complicated than it should be. Your head lolls against his chest when he lifts you, and your hair smells like the coconut shampoo you’ve been using since college.

His bed is a single, which is a problem he’s been meaning to address for approximately three years now.

It made sense when he first moved in—cheaper, and it’s not like he had anyone to share it with anyway. 

But you crash here often enough that the lack of space has become a legitimate inconvenience.

And on top of that, you sleep like you’re trying to claim territory, arms and legs sprawling in every direction, and somehow you always end up taking up three-quarters of the mattress.

He sets you down as carefully as possible, but you immediately roll toward the center of the bed, curling into his pillow like you own it. 

Which, at this point, you basically do. 

You sleep here more often than you sleep at your own place, and you’ve never once offered to help pay for sheets or detergent or any of the other domestic expenses that come with your frequent overnight stays.

Not that he’d accept money from you anyway. 

But the principle stands.

Yoongi changes into sleep clothes and brushes his teeth, taking his time in the hope that you might shift to one side of the bed in the meantime. 

But when he comes back, you’ve somehow managed to spread out even more, one arm flung across the space where he’s supposed to sleep.

He considers the couch for about thirty seconds before deciding that his back hurts enough already without adding furniture-sleeping to the mix.

So instead, what he does is carefully lift your arm and slide into the narrow space between your body and the wall, trying not to jostle you too much.

You make a small sound of protest but don’t wake up.

Your leg bumps against his hip, and he gently pushes it back toward your side of the bed—not that there really is a ‘your side’ when the whole mattress is barely wide enough for one person.

This is his life now, apparently.

Sharing a too-small bed with his inconsiderate best friend who steals covers and kicks people in her sleep. 

He should probably be more annoyed about it than he is.

The thing is—he isn’t. 

But he wishes he was. 

And now the room is way too dark—though there’s the faint glow of streetlights filtering through his blinds. 

You’ve gone quiet now, no more snoring, just the hypnotic kind of rhythm of deep sleep—slower than usual, the kind of heavy, even pattern that means you’re really out.

Yoongi closes his eyes and tries to find a comfortable position that doesn’t involve any part of his body touching any part of yours. It’s basically impossible given the space constraints, but he manages to create a few inches of distance by pressing his back against the wall and keeping his arms crossed over his chest.

This is why he hates sharing beds with you. You’re a space invader. A cover thief. A human starfish who somehow always ends up diagonal across the mattress by morning.

He’s almost asleep when you say his name.

Not loud. Barely a whisper, really. But clear enough that there’s no mistaking it.

“Yoongi.”

His eyes snap open.

You’re still facing him, on your side, still breathing deeply, clearly unconscious. But you’d said his name like—

Like what? Like you were calling for him? 

Because it was not the way you usually say it when you’re awake—sharp with irritation, or drawn out with amusement. 

This was… different. Quieter. Like you were tasting the sound of it.

No. No, that’s ridiculous. People say random things in their sleep all the time. It doesn’t mean anything. 

You probably weren’t even dreaming about him specifically. Maybe you were dreaming about work, or school, or some random scenario where his name happened to come up.

But then you make this sound. Soft and breathy and almost like—

What the hell.

Yoongi goes very still, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

Did he hear that right?

You shift beside him, settling deeper into sleep, completely unaware that you just made his brain do jumping jacks. 

Because what the hell was that? What kind of dream are you having that involves saying his name like… like that?

He waits, listening to your breathing, but you don’t say anything else. Just sleep on, peaceful and oblivious while his mind races.

This is weird as fuck. 

Okay. So. You said his name in your sleep. People do that. It doesn’t mean anything. You probably dreamed you were arguing with him, or asking him to pass the remote, or telling him to stop being an asshole about something trivial.

Except it didn’t sound like any of those things.

It sounded like you were whimpering it.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers to the ceiling.

Now his brain is stuck on replay, turning that sound over and over until it’s burned into his memory.

The soft catch in your voice.

The way his name came out like you were reaching for something.

This is not information he needed. This is the kind of information that makes everything complicated and weird, and he was perfectly happy with things being uncomplicated and normal.

And isn’t that just great? Now he’s going to have to pretend he didn’t hear it. 

Tomorrow morning, when you wake up and stretch and complain about being stiff, he’s going to act like you didn’t just make the most embarrassing sound possible while unconscious in his bed.

Great. Amazing. Really looking forward to that performance.

But also—and this is the part that makes him want to hang himself—he’s replaying it. Again. The soft way you breathed his name, like…

Like okay. He’s a healthy adult man. So really, it’s not like he can be blamed. He might be thinking about it. But that’s just—that’s just normal biological response to… whatever the hell that was.

You shift again, and your hand slides across the sheet, fingertips brushing his arm. 

Even in sleep, you’re invading his space, taking more than your share of the mattress.

Typical.

And normal. You’re asleep. People have weird dreams. It doesn’t mean anything, and he’s definitely not going to think about it, and tomorrow morning he’ll pretend this never happened because that’s what normal friends do.

But lying there in the dark, Yoongi finds himself staring at the ceiling and wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do with the way his name sounds when you say it like that.

Nothing, he decides. He’s going to do absolutely nothing with that information. Just pretend it didn’t happen.

He closes his eyes and tries to sleep. 

Yoongi wakes up with your foot in his ribs.

You’re sprawled across his bed like you’re trying to claim the entire mattress, one leg thrown over his hip, the other dangling off the edge. Your arm is flung across his chest, and somehow—somehow—you’ve managed to steal most of his pillow.

This is why he doesn’t share beds with you.

You sleep like you’re fighting invisible enemies.

He nudges your leg with his knee. “Move.”

You make a sound that’s half-whine, half-growl and burrow deeper into his pillow.

“I’m serious. Get off me.”

“Five more minutes,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.

“It’s my bed.”

“Shared custody.”

He considers shoving you off the mattress entirely, but you’ll just whine about it for the next hour, and he hasn’t had coffee yet. 

He’s not equipped to deal with your dramatics without caffeine.

Instead, he carefully extracts himself from your octopus grip and heads to the kitchen, leaving you to sprawl across the entire bed like the space invader you are.

The coffee maker gurgles to life, and he stands there waiting, trying not to think about the weird dream he had. 

Something about you saying his name, which is stupid because you say his name all the time. There’s nothing significant about hearing it in a dream.

Except it hadn’t felt like a… dream.

“Coffee,” you announce from the doorway, bedhair all over the place which makes him almost snort (he doesn’t), wearing his oversized t-shirt that you definitely stole from his dresser.

“Make your own.”

“You’re already making some.”

“For myself.”

You shuffle over anyway, bumping against his shoulder as you reach for the sugar.

Your skin is still warm from sleep, still smelling like cashmere; and there’s a crease on your cheek from his pillowcase.

“You kicked me,” you complain, stirring an obscene amount of sugar into your mug.

“You were taking up the entire bed.”

“I was not.”

“You had your foot in my kidney.”

“That’s not my fault. You have a tiny bed.”

Yoongi takes a long sip of his coffee and decides not to engage. 

You’ll find something else to complain about in approximately thirty seconds anyway.

You lean against the counter, studying him over the rim of your mug. He looks back at you, blinking—and oh, oh he doesn’t like that look at all. 

“What?” he says.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Don’t.”

You snort. “Very funny. I had an interesting dream last night.”

Here you go.

You always want to dissect your dreams like they mean something profound instead of just being the random firing of neurons during REM sleep.

“Riveting,” he says flatly.

“I dreamed you were touching me.”

Yoongi nearly chokes on his coffee. 

Because what the fuck did you just say.

“What?”

“Not like that,” you say quickly, though there’s something in your voice that suggests maybe it was exactly like that. “I mean, maybe like that. It was weird.”

“You’re weird.”

“I’m serious.” You set down your mug and turn to face him fully. “It got me thinking.”

“Always dangerous.”

“Shut up. I’m trying to have a conversation here.”

“About your sex dreams. Hard pass.”

“It wasn’t a sex dream.” But you’re fidgeting now, picking at the hem of his shirt. “It was just… touching. While I was asleep.”

Yoongi stares at you. “Okay?”

“Don’t you think that’s kind of… interesting?”

His eyes narrow to slits.

“I think you need therapy.”

“I’m being serious.” You’re warming up to whatever point you’re trying to make, eyes getting brighter. “Like, the idea of being touched while you’re unconscious. Vulnerable. But safe.”

“That sounds like something you should discuss with a professional.”

“Or with you.”

He sets down his coffee cup with more force than necessary. 

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s fucking weird, that’s why.”

“Everything’s weird if you think about it too hard.”

“This is weird without thinking about it at all.”

You’re quiet for a moment, chewing on your lower lip. 

He recognizes this look—it’s the same expression you get when you’re about to suggest something monumentally stupid.

“Bet you’ve thought about it though,” you say finally.

He frowns. “No.”

“Come on. You’re not curious?”

“About what? Molesting unconscious people? Shockingly, no.”

“It’s not molesting if there’s consent.”

Yoongi stares at you like you’re speaking in tongues. 

Because seriously—there’s no way.

There’s no way his perfectly sane (sometimes) best friend is literally suggesting what he thinks you’re suggesting.

“Did you hit your head when you fell off the bed this morning?”

“I didn’t fall off the bed.”

“Then what’s your excuse for this conversation?”

You lean forward, elbows on the counter. “I’m just saying, hypothetically, if someone wanted to try it—”

“We’re not talking about this.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s insane?”

“It’s not insane. It’s just different.”

“It’s perverted.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

Yoongi pinches the bridge of his nose. “I need more coffee for this.”

“I’m not asking you to do anything,” you say quickly. “I’m just… talking about it.”

“Well, stop.”

But you don’t stop. 

Because you never stop when you get an idea stuck in your head. You’re like a dog with a bone, worrying at it until everyone around you wants to scream.

“I read about it online,” you continue, ignoring his obvious discomfort. “It’s called somnophilia. And it’s not that uncommon.”

“Great. Wonderful. You learned a new word.”

“Some people find it really intimate. The trust aspect.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Where are you going?”

“Anywhere that isn’t here.”

You grab his arm as he tries to walk past you. “Wait. Just… hear me out.”

“No.”

“Sixty seconds? Please. That’s all I’m asking.”

“I said no.”

“You’re not even curious? Not even a little bit?”

He looks down at your hand on his arm, then back at your face.

You’re watching him with that stubborn expression that means you’re not going to let this go until he at least pretends to consider it.

“You’re not serious,” he says finally.

“I’m dead serious.”

“You want me to… what? Touch you while you’re asleep?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I want to talk about it.”

Yoongi pulls his arm free and takes a step back. “This is the stupidest conversation we’ve ever had.”

“We’ve had stupider.”

“Name one.”

“That time you tried to convince me that cereal was soup.”

“Cereal is soup.”

“See? Stupider.”

Despite himself, Yoongi almost smiles. Almost. But then he remembers what you’re actually suggesting, and the moment passes.

“This is different,” he says.

“How?”

“Because cereal doesn’t involve me potentially assaulting you in your sleep.”

“It’s not assault if I ask for it.”

“It’s somethign.”

You’re quiet for a moment, studying his face. “You’re really freaked out by this.”

“Of course I’m freaked out by this.”

“Why?”

“Because normal people don’t ask their friends to molest them?”

“I’m not asking you to molest me! I’m asking you to… explore a fantasy.”

“Your fantasy.”

“Maybe yours too.”

Yoongi stares at you. 

“I don’t have fantasies about unconscious people.”

“But you have fantasies.”

“Not about you.”

“I didn’t say they had to be about me,” you say defensively.

“Then what are we talking about?”

“I don’t know.” You’re fidgeting again, picking at the counter edge. “I just thought… we trust each other. It doesn’t have to be weird.”

“It’s already weird.”

“Only because you’re making it weird.”

“I’m making it weird?”

“Yes.”

“You’re the one who brought up getting touched in your sleep.”

“Because I trust you.”

Silence.

Yoongi feels something twist in his chest—guilt, maybe, or responsibility. 

The weight of being someone’s safe person.

He sighs heavily. “What would… what would it involve?”

Your face lights up like you won the lottery. “Really?”

“I didn’t say yes. I’m asking what you’re even talking about.”

“Right. Okay.” You’re practically bouncing now, hands gesturing as you talk. “So the whole point is that I’d be asleep. Completely unconscious. And you could… touch me.”

“Touch you how?”

“However you wanted.”

Yoongi stares at you. “That’s not an answer.”

“I don’t know! That’s the point. I wouldn’t know what you did unless I woke up.”

“And if you woke up?”

“Then you’d stop. Obviously.”

“That is insane.”

“It’s not insane. People do this.”

“Not people I know.”

“Well, now you know me.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Let me get this straight. You want me to… what? Grope you while you’re unconscious?”

“If you wanted to.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

You shrug. “Then you don’t do anything. You just let me sleep.”

“And you’d never know either way.”

“That’s the point.”

“What kind of point is that?”

“The exciting kind.” You’re leaning forward now, eyes bright with something that looks dangerously close to enthusiasm. “Think about it. I’d go to sleep not knowing if you were going to touch me or not. And you’d know, but I wouldn’t. There’s this whole… tension.”

“Tension.”

“Yeah. Like, maybe you did something. Maybe you didn’t. I’d never know for sure.”

Yoongi looks at you like you’ve lost your fucking mind.  “Why would you want that?”

“Because it’s exciting! The not knowing. The possibility.”

“You’re fucked up.”

“I’m curious.”

“About being molested in your sleep.”

“About being desired,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“Yes. If you touched me, it would be because you wanted to. Not because I was awake and asking for it.”

“That’s…” He stops, trying to process what you just said. “That’s the most backwards logic I’ve ever heard.”

“It makes sense to me.”

“Nothing about this makes sense.”

You’re quiet for a moment, chewing on your lower lip. 

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“I don’t want to do any of this.”

“Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

Silence, again. 

He stares at the brown liquid swimming in his cup. Thinks about what you’re saying. Wonders why you’d want that at all.

But most importantly…

“Why me?” he asks finally.

“What?”

“Why are you asking me? There are other people. People who might actually be into this shit.”

“I don’t trust other people.”

“You shouldn’t trust me either.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a guy?”

“So?”

“So guys are…” He gestures vaguely. “We think about sex. A lot. More than we should.”

“I know.”

“And you’re asking me to touch you while you’re unconscious and can’t say no.”

“But I’m saying yes now.”

“That’s not how consent works.”

“Isn’t it?”

Yoongi stares at you. “I don’t know. I’m not a lawyer.”

“You’re overthinking this.”

“Someone should.”

You’re quiet again, but he can see the wheels turning in your head—that conniving expression you get when you’re trying to convince him to watch some terrible movie you saw a trailer for.

“What if we had rules?” you say finally.

“Rules.”

“Yeah. Like, boundaries. Things you can and can’t do.”

“Such as?”

“I don’t know. That’s why we’d discuss it.”

“This is the part where you tell me what you actually want.”

You fidget with your coffee mug. “I want to not know.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“Look, it doesn’t have to be complicated. You either want to touch me or you don’t. If you do, then when I’m asleep, you can. If you don’t, then you don’t. Either way, I don’t want to know about it.”

“Why?”

“Because then we can still be friends.”

“We’re friends now.”

“Yeah, but if I knew you touched me while I was asleep, it would change things.”

“It’s going to change things anyway.”

“Not if I don’t know about it.”

Yoongi stares at you. “That’s the most ridiculous logic I’ve ever heard.”

“It makes sense to me.”

“Nothing about you makes sense.”

You grin. “That’s why you love me.”

“I don’t love you.”

“You tolerate me.”

“Barely.”

But there’s something in his chest that twists when you smile at him like that. Something that makes him think maybe you’re not as crazy as you sound.

Maybe.

“So?” you prompt. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re insane.”

“But?”

“There is no but.”

“There’s always a but.”

Yoongi looks at you—really looks at you.

At the way you’re watching him with hopeful eyes, like you actually think he might agree to this.

At the way you’re fidgeting with your coffee mug, nervous but trying to hide it.

You trust him.

Enough to ask him something like this.

Enough to put yourself in a position where you’d be completely vulnerable and defenseless.

It’s fucked up.

It’s also…

“I need to think about it,” he says finally.

Your face lights up. “Really?”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“But you didn’t say no.”

“I’m saying I need to think.”

“How long?”

“However long it takes.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

You’re practically vibrating with excitement now, and he immediately regrets not just saying no.

Because now you’re going to spend the next however-long pestering him about it, dropping hints and giving him looks like you’re sharing some kind of secret.

Which, he supposes, you are.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” he says quickly. “Me thinking about it. It doesn’t mean I’m going to do it.”

“I know.”

“I’m probably going to say no.”

“Okay.”

“I probably should say no.”

“Probably.”

“Any sane person would say no.”

“Sane people are boring.”

He purses his lips together, lets out a loud sigh.

“I’m taking a shower,” he announces, setting his empty mug in the sink.

“Think about it,” you call after him as he heads toward the bathroom.

“I’m definitely not thinking about it in the shower.”

“Why not? That’s when people do their best thinking.”

“I’m washing my hair. Not contemplating your weird sex fantasies.”

“They’re not weird!”

“They’re fucking bizarre!”

He slams the bathroom door behind him, and through the thin walls, he can hear you laughing like this whole conversation was perfectly normal instead of completely insane.

Which it was.

Completely, utterly insane.

And he’s actually considering it.

Christ.

©️ kikiskook aka @jungkoode 2025.

do not translate. do not repost.