Chapter Text
You watch with fascination as he slides into your core. The length of his cock, wrapped in its translucent sheath, disappears and resurfaces, slick with your arousal. Yoongi's long, spindly fingers grip at your thighs, pushing them back to press against the pillow of your chest. Bent desperately in your middle, you crane your neck, enraptured with the sight before you.
This is not the first time he has had you splayed naked across his bed, and barring some freak incident, this will not be the last. Each unfettered grunt that passes his lips, and every half-swallowed moan from yours, assures that your limbs will continue this pass time indefinitely.
"Fuck, Yoongi, I want you to cum for me so bad," you murmur. His hips pull back slowly, tentatively, before slamming into yours, drawing a sharp cry. Each pump grows more intense, jiggling your chest with the force of his movements.
"Not yet, babe," he huffs between exerted breaths. "Not until you cum all over my cock like a good little slut." His hand releases one of your legs, letting it fall to the mattress while he winds up to deliver a sharp slap to the breast it exposed. The tingle of your burning skin blossoms upon your nipple, stiffening to a tight peak. "You gonna be good for me?" He continues, fingertips swatting once more upon the sensitive bud.
"Yes, sir!" The cry flies from your lips, frantic and needy.
"Touch yourself for me," he demands, hoisting the leg still within his grip over his shoulder. As you pull your fist away from the sheets, you spit on your fingers - dirty, the way you know he likes - and let them fall between your legs. But you cannot bring yourself to go straight to your clit. Instead, your fingers detour to your core, slip around his cock, feel each motion between your digits as he thrusts within you. Satisfied and not daring to encourage his reprimand, you slide back to your clit, slick digits rubbing frantic circles upon the sensitive nerves.
The press of his cock against your walls, hitting that spongy spot that makes your legs shake, with the mounting pleasure of your own movements, has you quivering beneath him. Your thigh burns where he leans into your body, stretching your tired limbs. Your muscles clench around him - first intentionally, then spasmodically - and you are a mess. Screaming incoherent expletives, your abdomen blooms with the euphoric ache of your orgasm.
"Good girl," Yoongi grunts, quickening his pace as he pummels into you. Your fingers drop from your clit, clenching his biceps to tether you to reality lest you be lost to the world beyond your dusky eyes. He all but slams into your pussy, skin slapping sharply against the meat of your ass. "Fuck!" He pulls back abruptly, tearing off the condom and stroking his length with urgency. "Where do you want my cum?" He grunts, fist curled and jostling his head, glistening with the sticky drops of his precum.
"Cum on my tits," you urge, and he climbs up the bed to hover overhead.
"Fuck, I'm cumming," he grunts like a mantra, a breathy whine curling up his throat as he shoots ropes across your chest, milking every last drop from his weeping cock. Breathless, he drags his fingers through the warm, sticky mess upon your skin, gathering it onto his digits and shoving them past your eager lips. Your pout is glazed with his pleasure, and you lick it clean. Swallowing, you meet his eyes with a devilish grin.
"You should eat more fruit," you tell him with a smirk. He sends one last slap to your nipple in rebuttal and climbs off the bed.
"Such a brat," he grumbles as he pulls on his boxer-briefs and wanders down the hall. You hear the whistle of water running through his pipes, and he returns a moment later with a wet washcloth. Gently, he runs the small towel over your sex, folds it, and wipes across your chest before tossing it to the corner of the room where it barely misses the hamper.
Scooting on the bed, you make room for Yoongi. His warm limbs lay astride your own, coaxing you into his chest. The afternoon sun peeks through his blinds and casts stripes across the plain walls of his bedroom. You relax, curling your arm around his waist and breathing in his scent.
You could be alone. You are alone, for all intents and purposes, but you could never trade this. There is comfort in the arms of another, and it is the one thing you could not replicate on your own. No amount of silicone or vibration could compare to the security you felt in a bare embrace like this one.
"Thanks for helping me out," you mumble sleepily into his chest, heart beating its slow rhythm against your cheek. "I really needed that."
"Any time," he says, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze.
It was not always like this. Yoongi used to be just your neighbor, who would offer polite waves to you and your boyfriend in the elevator. And then one day it was just you in the lift, and he made the mistake of asking why. He could have picked any topic, really, but your tired eyes and sagging shoulders told him this was the button he should push. Call it intuition, call it chaos. Either way he knew that you needed someone to talk to, and despite all of his grumbling exterior, he wanted to be that someone.
Being that someone turned out to have its perks, for both of you. In the dark hours where late bled into early, with a hot cup of tea nestled between your palms, legs tucked beneath you on his sofa, your tired lips spun lucid, unrestrained confessions: a troubled relationship ended on a bad note, left you weary and full of doubt. But you could get through it! You could get through anything. Fuck, did you miss sex, though. You missed good sex, consistent sex. Sure, you could get on one of those dating apps or wander into a club and try your luck, but that would not bring you what you need. One-night stands hardly promised the quality to which you had grown accustomed with a tenured partner, and you knew it would not suffice. But you did not want another relationship, dreaded the curse of that commitment.
To you it was a conundrum, but to Yoongi the solution was clear as day. Honestly, he was amazed you did not slap him for suggesting it. An offer was made, and later that week your knuckles rapped upon his door, anxious but eager, and ready to accept. That was two months ago, and by now you are fairly certain he has had you bent or pressed against every surface in his apartment, especially his bed. It was not the most conventional way of starting a friendship, but somehow it worked for you both. From time to time, however, nervousness erupted in your belly, a fear that you were letting him too close, that you were crossing some unspoken line. You created distance in strange areas, cautious not to suggest that your relationship was anything more than casual. There were no toothbrushes side by side. You did not keep clothes in his apartment or dare stay the night.
As you tug your shirt over your head and button your jeans, Yoongi asks what your plans are for the rest of the day, and you shrug. Shrugging is easier than telling him that you are going to the movies, that you are going alone, and that you don’t want him to join you because you don't want it to feel like a date.
He can tell that you are hiding. The pause in your response and the discomfort in your body language speaks verses despite your silence. By now, he knows better than to ask. He pressed once before, and that was how his pretty neighbor landed, literally, in his lap. Any more than that would be pressing his luck. So, he lets you go with a quick hug and a wave goodbye, with the quiet confidence that you will be back on his doorstep soon enough. As you disappear into the hall and the door closes behind you, he cannot help but wonder at how quickly his pillow began to smell like you, or how long it took for him to realize he enjoyed it.
It is a sunny Tuesday afternoon, sat at your cubicle, when your phone calendar pops up with an alert. Swiping across the lock screen, you open the notification, squinting with suspicion. You do not remember making plans. But when the bold text, "Don’t forget!! BIG SPOON TOMORROW!! <3" reads at the top of the page, you are flooded with memories you would rather forget: an evening curled up on the couch with take out from your favorite Italian restaurant spread across the coffee table, a passing comment that you should cook more, and a rebuttal of "maybe you should join me." You thought it would be a fun surprise, signing up for the summer cooking series at the cute café downtown. Instead, the news was received with a groan of "do I have to?" Honestly, you should have seen it coming, much like the downfall of your relationship.
You grab your phone and wander down the hall to the break room, pulling open the website for the Big Spoon for details on the couples cooking series which you had signed up for months prior. Four weeks, every Wednesday evening, couples only, no refunds. But...but...
Hastily you dial the café, quickly met with the chirping voice of a friendly woman who had clearly consumed caffeine in excess to deal with the day's onslaught of patronage and drudgery. With a brightness that contradicts her sympathetic words, she is quick to explain that despite your newfound singledom, she cannot refund your spot. With a whisper, she adds, "maybe you could find a friend to join you? The guy who runs the class prefers teaching couples, but he doesn't have to know..."
Resigned, you thank the woman and hang up. Returning to your desk, you wrack your brain for options. Who could you ask? Jimin and Irene are on vacation, Namjoon was a hazard and you feared for you own safety at the thought of inviting him. Mark just started dating that new girl, and you doubt she would be comfortable with the arrangement. Maybe Ami? You shoot her a brief text asking to meet up later and resume your work before anyone could accuse you of slacking off.
Standing on the doorstep, you send the requisite text that you are outside. Ringing the bell means barking. Barking means Ami will be pissed. A pissed Ami is significantly less likely to agree to your coercion.
As Ami opens the door, you grin and hold up a chilled bottle of strawberry wine in one hand, and takeout in the other. She eyes you skeptically, shooing her beloved Pomeranian, Roxy, away from the door frame. The tan ball of fluff yips at you warily.
"Rox, cut it out. We know this bitch. You've seen this bitch how many times now? Fuck." She rolls her eyes and scans your offerings skeptically. "This bitch is trying to bribe us, Rox."
"Love you too, babe," you say sweetly, stepping inside. Roxy's nails click across the tile floor as she circles your legs, nearly tripping you in her pursuit of the food you carry. You follow Ami into the kitchen and set the goods on the counter. She sifts through a drawer of utensils for the corkscrew while you make a grab for plates and glasses.
"So, what do you want?" She cuts right to the chase. "I know what strawberry wine means. The ritual sacrifice has been accepted." You laugh, hardly ashamed of your transparency.
Pulling out containers of white rice, pickled daikon, and fried chicken, you dive in. "So, I had signed up to take this cooking class with Eun-ho-"
"Asshole." Oh, the many reasons you love her.
"-And so obviously that's not a thing anymore, but I can't get out of the class and it's already paid for and I need someone to be my partner," you rush out in one breath. "And you totally want to be my partner. It's Wednesday at six, and you definitely want to come cook with me. Right? Yes? Cool." You send a hopeful smile her way, with finger guns to seal the deal. Who can say no to finger guns?
"Hey, don't finger gun me! You know I can't say no to these bad boys!" Her own digits fire back. "Eeeeexcept for this time," she says in as apologetic of a tone as she can muster- which is barely- adding a final pew-pew.
"What? No! Why not?" The serving spoon you had dug into the container of daikon clatters against the counter, and your smile drops, replaced with a desolate frown.
"Sorry, babe. I've got a date. Ask your boy toy." She shrugs and carries two alarmingly full glasses of wine to the coffee table, and you follow with loaded plates.
"He's not my boy toy," you grumble. You hate the phrase, and she knows it.
"Fuck buddy? Fuck neighbor? Whatever you want to call him."
Your eyes roll of their own volition, you swear. "No, don't be weird. That's so domestic." Shaking your head, you sigh. Maybe you should just go alone.
Sending a pointed look, she takes a swig of her wine. "Look, I get that you're on your whole 'I'm a strong, independent woman who don't need no man' bullshit, and that's great, but it's getting ridiculous."
"I'm dating myself!" You proclaim defensively, arms crossed over your chest.
"See! That shit! Stop it!" Ami groans and lets out an exasperated sigh. "There's nothing wrong with taking time for yourself, or having casual sex, but for fuck's sake! You can gargle the man's cum but asking him to boil pasta is too intimate?"
Floundering, you stuff your mouth with chicken. Still chewing, you mumble. "I just don't want to send mixed signals."
She narrows her eyes. "You're gross. Swallow."
"I usually do," you say.
Blinkingly, Ami stares at you, lips in a tight line. “You’re such a dumb slut. I fucking love you.”
Tilting your glass of wine in her direction, you mirror the sentiment. “Love you too, bitch.”