Hello! Hope you're doing well. Love your work! Can I request something slightly.. Maybe confusing?
Idk why but I've always felt that Yoongi and Namjoon have the potential to be attracted to similar people, given their ideologies and personalities. So what happens when they meet reader organically and feel drawn towards them?
I am not envisioning a love triangle per se, but only the illusion of one. Where both grow closer to reader but with namjoon, it indeed is just a solid friendship. Lovestruck but in denial Yoongi doesn't see it that way necessarily. At least initially. Maybe some angst there.
Therefore despite the reader showing interest back, it takes our honey boy a minute to get there, and finally it's all sorted. Yoongi and reader end up together and all their friends are happy for them!
Cold Storage: An Archive of Imperfect Notes
Pairings: Min Yoongi x Archivist!Reader (slow burn), Platonic Kim Namjoon x Reader
Rating: R (M)
Genre: angst, romance, hurt/comfort, fluff
Warnings: alcohol use (whiskey), emotional confrontations (themes of self-doubt, fear of artistic irrelevance), mild language, jealousy, kissing (non-explicit)
Word Count: ~ 3k
Description:
As HYBE’s archivist, you’re a keeper of ghosts - demos, coffee-stained lyrics, and the jagged edges of artists’ past selves. But when Min Yoongi starts haunting the archives to resurrect his old mixtapes, his obsession with the boy he used to be collides with the man he’s become. Between debates about Rilke, Camus, and the stains on his notebooks, you’ll learn that some wounds outlive the knife… and some hearts only thaw in the cold.
💌 Reply:
Hi love! 💜 First off - THANK YOU for this brilliant request (and your kind words, my heart 🥹). I hope you don’t mind that I spun this into a full imagine/fic — your concept of Yoongi and Joon’s parallel pulls and the “illusion” of a triangle hit me like a TRUCK. As a Yoongi ult (he’s my first/last/always 🐱) and Namjoon bias-wrecker, I vibrated at the idea of their dynamic clashing over someone who challenges them - god, I wish I could thank you enough (you scratched my brain)
I kept your vision sacred: no real triangle, just Yoongi’s honey-coated denial, Joon’s platonic muse vibes, and the angst of two artists fearing too much vulnerability (at least in my mind).
Also, the others teasing Yoongi? I couldn't NOT do it
If this isn’t what you pictured, I’ll happily tweak, but I hope it gives you that slow-burn, you deserved. Thank you for trusting me with this gem.
Now go feed your brainrot, legend. 🖤
– c – 💜
Cold Storage: An Archive of Imperfect Notes
Cold Storage: An Archive of Imperfect Notes
Prologue: The Quiet Before the Storm
The archives room at HYBE was a cathedral of silence, if silence could hum.
You liked it that way; the steady whir of climate-controlled servers, the faint tang of aged paper clinging to your fingertips, the way dust motes drifted like static in the blue-tinted dark. Here, in the belly of the iconic building where music went to hibernate, you were more archaeologist than archivist. Unearthing demos from 2013 felt like brushing silt from fossils, each lyric sheet was a bone fragment of who BTS used to be.
You’d taken the job for the anonymity. Artists came to you as ghosts, through track lists scrawled in Sharpie, voice memos buried in hard drives, the occasional coffee ring staining a producer’s notes. They rarely came in person.
Until today.
The Catalyst
The door hissed open at 3:47 PM. You didn’t look up, fingers skating over the spine of a 2014 lyric journal. “If you’re here for the Dark & Wild masters, they’re digitizing in Bay 6.”
“Not here for Bang PD’s old angst,” a voice drawled. Dry, low, lacquered with a Daegu rasp. “Looking for mine.”
Your head snapped up.
Min Yoongi leaned against the doorframe, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His face was all angles under the archival LEDs. his sharp jaw, sharper eyes. You’d seen him before, of course. In hallways. Through the frosted glass of Studio 4, in the practice rooms... Never here, where the past was kept under lock and humidity controls.
“Am producing D-3,” he said, pushing off the frame. “Ten-year reissue. Need the raw stems. And the notebook I used back then. The black one.”
You blinked. “The one where you wrote ‘I want to scream but my throat is a cemetery’?”
His eyebrow twitched, he seemed impressed for a second. “…Yeah.”
You stood, chair screeching. “Physical copies are in Cold Storage. Digital’s accessible if you...”
“Want the physical.” He crossed his arms. “Need to see the… stains.”
Ah. The coffee spills, crossed out words - rewritten a hundred times, whatever sins of sentimentality survived a decade. You nodded, turning toward the steel vault door.
The archives chose that moment to spit out Kim Namjoon.
He materialized between shelves like a philosopher-king misplaced by time, hair tousled, glasses smudged. “Hyung? What’re you...”
“My mixtape’s getting a facelift,” Yoongi said, not taking his eyes off you. “You?”
Namjoon hefted a dog-eared copy of The Myth of Sisyphus. “Preparing speech on art as resilience. Need more Camus. And… something that doesn’t sound like a TED Talk.” He grinned, dimples cratering. “Help?”
You snorted. “Camus is a TED Talk. 1942 edition.”
Namjoon’s grin widened. “Then give me the director’s cut.”
Yoongi cleared his throat. Loudly. “Cold Storage?”
“Right.” You led them deeper into the archives, fluorescent lights flickering like a heartbeat monitor. Yoongi’s shadow loomed over your shoulder; Namjoon’s fingers trailed the shelves, dislodging years of dust.
The vault door groaned open. Yoongi stepped into the 12°C chill like a soldier entering a trench.
“Box S-13,” you said, gloved hands lifting a battered container. Inside lay the notebook, the pages warped, edges singed. “Handle with care. Literally.”
He took it like a relic. For a moment, his mask slipped, lips parted, eyes soft and startled, as if meeting a ghost. Then he sniffed. “Nostalgia’s a scam. This…” He flicked a page. “Kid was an idiot.”
You tilted your head. “Or you’re scared he’s smarter than you now.”
Yoongi froze.
Namjoon coughed; badly hiding a laugh.
“Growth isn’t a diss to who you were,” you continued, pulling a crate of Camus essays for Namjoon. “Just proof you survived.”
Yoongi’s gaze cut to you, calculating. “You psychoanalyze all the artists, or just the ones who peaked in 2014?”
“Only the ones who leave burn marks on their notebooks.” You nodded at the charcoal smudges on his thumb.
Namjoon burst out laughing. “Oh, I like her.”
Yoongi didn’t laugh. But his lips quirked, brief and begrudging. “Whatever. Thanks.” He turned to leave, then paused. “…Kid me. You think he’d hate me now?”
The question hung in the frozen air.
You considered the man clutching his past like a grenade. “He’d pity you.”
Yoongi’s brow furrowed.
“For thinking you had to choose between him and who you are now.”
For a heartbeat, the vault hummed with unsaid things. Then Yoongi huffed, tucking the notebook under his arm. “Tell Cold Storage to chill less. It’s fucking arctic in here.”
He left.
Namjoon lingered, thumbing through Camus. “‘The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart,’” he read aloud. Then, softer: “You believe that? That art outlives the artist?”
You handed him a first-edition Rebel. “Depends. What if the artist wants to fade? To let the work breathe without their shadow?”
He stilled, eyes narrowing behind smudged lenses. “…Are you always this dangerous?”
“Only to philosophers who quote dead Frenchmen at me.”
Namjoon’s laugh echoed off the vault walls. “Noted. But fair warning...” He leaned in, mock-conspiratorial. “Yoongi-hyung’s gonna be back. He hates losing debates.”
“Not a debate. A fact.”
“Even worse.” He winked, tucking the book under his arm. “Thanks, archivist.”
You watched him leave, unaware of the eyes burning into your back from the security feed in Studio 4... Yoongi, rewinding the footage, pausing on your smirk.
On the desk, his old notebook lay open to a scribbled line: I want to die - I want to live.
He hit replay.
The Dance
The HYBE cafeteria at midnight was a liminal space, flickering vending machines, the scent of stale coffee, and the ghost of Jungkook’s laughter echoing from a meme video left playing on a tablet. You sat hunched over a dog-eared Rilke collection, blue-light glasses slipping down your nose as Namjoon paced, reciting draft lines like incantations.
“Art as… a rebellion against entropy,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “No, too clinical. Art as... shit, what’s the equivalent for ‘intergenerational dialogue’?”
You tossed him a chocolate bar from your bag. “Try 유산 (legacy). Or 대화 (conversation). Depends if you want your audience to weep or nap.”
He caught it, dimples flashing. “Why not both?” Collapsing into the chair across from you, he ripped the wrapper with his teeth. “Help me murder this paragraph. It’s got three metaphors and zero soul.”
You leaned over his notebook, red pen slashing through a convoluted analogy about “sculpting time.” “Camus would disown you. Keep it raw. Like your ‘My heart was filled with straight lines only’ line in Trivia: Love.”
Namjoon’s eyes lit up. “You know that song?”
“I archive your old journals. You wrote that lyric after spilling green tea on Hegel.”
He barked a laugh, loud enough to startle a passing cleaner. “Okay, archivist. What’s raw but profound?”
You scribbled in the margin: “Art isn’t a relic... it’s the wound that outlives the knife.”
Namjoon stared, then slowly grinned. “…I’m stealing that.”
Yoongi found you two days later, arguing over the pronunciation of “Schwere” (heaviness) in Rilke’s “Archaic Torso of Apollo.”
“It’s sh-veh-reh,” you insisted, slamming a German dictionary on the archives desk. “Not shuh-wear. You’re butchering the Schmerz (pain).”
Namjoon leaned back, smug. “Hyung, back me up. It’s about feeling, not grammar.”
Yoongi hovered in the doorway, a box of 2015 demos under his arm. His black sweater rode up slightly as he shifted, frowning. “Why’s Rilke in my studio?”
“Speech,” you said, not looking up. “He’s romanticizing existentialism again.”
Namjoon tossed a crumpled post-it at Yoongi. “They’re ruthless. Tell them schwere (heaviness) is subjective.”
Yoongi caught it, squinting at the scribbled lines. Art isn’t a relic - it’s the wound that outlives the knife. His jaw twitched. “Sounds like a D-2 B-side.” He dropped the demos on your desk. “Need these scanned. And the notebook from last week.”
You frowned. “You’ve requested that notebook three times.”
He met your gaze, unblinking. “I like the stains.”
His visits became clockwork.
Tuesdays at 4 PM
“The 2016 tour schedules. For… chronology.”
Thursdays at 7 PM
“Original First Love lyrics. The ones with the coffee rings.”
Each time, he lingered; arguing over tracklists, scoffing at your critiques, circling back to debates about his old self.
“Reissue Track 5 should be The Last pt.2 ,” you said one evening, sliding the old demo across the desk.
Yoongi stiffened. “Too raw. People won’t get it.”
“Or you’re scared they will.”
He leaned forward, palms flat on the desk. The small 7 on his shoulder peeked out, a silent confession. “You think you know me because you’ve digitized my angst?”
“I think The Last saved someone once. Maybe you.”
He held your stare, the air thickening like storm clouds. Then he snatched the demo. “Track 5 stays Agust D - WHO?.”
But the next day, the tracklist update included The Last pt.2.
It was Namjoon who shattered the détente.
You’d met him in the cafeteria again, debating the ethics of AI-generated art. His laugh, warm and booming, carried across the room as you mocked his “algorithms can’t cry” argument.
Yoongi walked in just as you tossed a sugar packet at Namjoon’s chest.
“ So if a robot writes a love song,” you said, grinning, “...is it plagiarism or progress?”
Namjoon caught the packet, eyes crinkling. “Depends if it’s got soul. Like your Rilke edits., but probably not.”
Yoongi froze, tray in hand. His knuckles whitened around a cup of bitter black coffee.
Of course it’s Joon.
He left without a word.
That night, Yoongi stormed the archives.
“Seesaw,” he demanded, slamming a hand on your desk. “The original first-demo. Now.”
You didn’t flinch. “...it’s 11 PM.”
“And?”
“You’ve listened to Seesaw a thousand times. Why now?”
His throat bobbed. “Need to remember why I wrote it.”
You swiveled to the server, pulling up the file. The demo played, raw, unpolished, Yoongi’s voice cracking on “I’m afraid I’ll get used to this pain,” - a line that didn't make it too the final track.
He stood rigid, back to you.
“You wrote it because you were tired of balancing pride and regret,” you said softly. “Because vulnerability felt like failure.”
Yoongi spun, eyes blazing. “You don’t...”
“Know you?” You stood, meeting his glare. “I know the boy who scribbled ‘I need u’ in margins. Who still comes here to argue with his ghost when noone is looking, but I see.”
He stepped closer, heat radiating off him. “And what do you get from this? Playing therapist to fucked-up artists?”
“Maybe I like the company.”
A beat. His gaze dropped to your lips.
The door creaked.
Namjoon poked his head in, blissfully oblivious. “Archivist! Need your take on Nietzsche’s ‘eternal recurrence’ for the speech... Oh. Am I interrupting?”
Yoongi jerked back, cheeks flushed. “No.”
“Yes,” you said.
Namjoon glanced between you, smirk blooming. “I’ll… come back.”
Yoongi left without another word, but not before you spotted the tremor in his hands; the same tremor from the day he’d first held his old notebook.
The Fracture
The air in Studio 4 was always sterile, a vacuum sealed against the outside world. But tonight, it felt like a tomb.
Yoongi had been playing his The Last pt.2 draft on loop for hours, the demo’s jagged bassline gnawing at the soundproof walls. His fingers hovered over the mixing board, tweaking the same three-second clip - “I built my pride from broken glass”, until the words lost meaning.
He didn’t hear the door open. You were one of the few people in the company with keys to almost every room.
“You’re avoiding me.”
Your voice cut through the noise. Yoongi’s shoulders tensed, but he didn’t turn. “Busy.”
“Bullshit.” You stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind you. “You haven’t answered a single text. Skipped the archives all week. What’s wrong?”
What’s wrong. The track pulsed, raw and unpolished. “The Last pt.2” was supposed to be a sequel, closure for the boy who wrote “I want to die” in smudged ink years ago. Instead, it felt like a relapse.
“MIN YOONGI.”
He spun, chair screeching. “Why’re you here? Shouldn’t you be helping Joon craft his precious speech?”
The venom startled you. “He asked me to rehearse. That’s all.”
Yoongi scoffed, jabbing a finger at the screen. “Saw you. Foreheads touching, hands all... whatever. Looked cozy.”
You blinked. “I was stopping him from clicking his pen. He does it when he’s nervous. You know that.”
“Do I?” He stood abruptly, knocking over a half-empty glass of whiskey. The liquid seeped into his notebook, blurring the notes as he shoved past you. “Doesn’t matter. Got a producer meeting.”
“At midnight?”
“Yes.”
You blocked the door. “Talk to me.”
His laugh was brittle. “About what? How you’ve got Joon wrapped around your finger? How he looks at you like you’re his damn muse?”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I?” He stepped closer, the whiskey on his breath sharp and sour. “You quote his lyrics, fix his speeches, laugh at his jokes... fuck, you even know how he takes his coffee. What’s next? Translating his diary?”
You flinched. “It’s not like that. Also you only drink decaf, iced...”
“Sure.” He yanked the door open. “Have fun crafting legacies.”
Rooftop, 1:14 AM
The wind bit through Yoongi’s sweater as Namjoon found him slumped against the guardrail, whiskey glass dangling from his fingers.
“You look like hell,” Namjoon said, settling beside him.
“Feel like it.”
A beat. The city below hummed, indifferent.
“They quoted The Last in my speech today,” Namjoon said quietly.
Yoongi stiffened.
“Not the lyrics. The… feeling. Said it reminded them that art isn’t about permanence. It’s about…” He paused. “'The courage to shatter what you’ve built.'”
Yoongi’s throat tightened.His line, from the 2016 notebook, unreleased.
Namjoon turned, gaze piercing. “They’ve been stealing your words to fix mine this whole time. Not because they’re mine... because they’re yours.”
The glass trembled in Yoongi’s hand. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re an idiot.” Namjoon’s voice softened. “They’re not my muse, hyung. They’re yours. Always have been.”
Yoongi stared at the amber liquid, the reflection of his own fractured face staring back.
“You gonna keep hiding in demos?” Namjoon stood, clapping his shoulder. “Or write a new verse?”
Studio 4, 2:03 AM
The door creaked open again.
You froze, breath catching.
Yoongi stood in the threshold, The Last pt.2 still looping. His eyes were red-rimmed, hair a mess, but his voice steadied the storm.
“I’m… shit at this.”
“At what?”
“Talking. Feeling. All of it.” He stepped inside, the door shutting with a soft click. “But I’m worse at pretending I don’t.”
The track swelled - “I built my pride from broken glass” - as he closed the distance.
“Joon’s right,” he muttered, gaze dropping to your lips. “I’m an idiot.”
The space between you crackled.
“Prove it,” you whispered.
He didn't, not yet...
The Harmony
The archives hummed with the static of a thousand dormant stories, the air thick with the scent of ink and longing.
Yoongi stood in the center of the room, his back to you, shoulders tense as he rifled through a box of 2018 demos. The small 7 on his shoulder peeked out beneath his tank top, a silent testament to loyalty, and fear.
“You left this in Studio 4.”
He froze at your voice.
You held up his old notebook, the one with the warped pages and coffee-stained edges. It fell open to “I need u”, the words circled in red, your own scribble bleeding into the margin: “I need you too.”
Yoongi didn’t turn. “Thought you’d be with Joon.”
“Stop.” Your voice cracked. “Stop pretending you don’t see me.”
He spun, eyes dark and stormy. “See what? You quoting my lyrics to fix his speeches? Laughing at his jokes? Holding his damn hand...”
“To stop him from clicking his pen!” You repeated and stepped closer, the notebook trembling in your grip. “You think I care about his speeches? About legacies? I’ve been here every night, waiting for you to look up from your damn demos and see me!”
Yoongi’s breath hitched.
You thrust the notebook at him. “You want to know why I memorized The Last notes? Why I stayed late every time you asked for another mixtape? It wasn’t for the music, you idiot. It was for you.”
The archives fell silent, save for the whir of servers.
Yoongi stared at the notebook, your confession etched beside his oldest wound. When he finally spoke, his voice was raw. “I thought… I was just another track to you. Something to analyze and shelve.”
“You were never just anything.”
He looked up, vulnerability stripping him bare. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
“This.” He gestured between you, the air crackling. “Wanting someone who… who knows all the broken parts.”
You closed the distance, your fingers brushing his. “Then stop hiding in your demos.”
His gaze dropped to your lips. “What if I ruin it?”
“You won’t.”
The kiss was a crescendo; slow at first, tentative, then desperate. Yoongi’s hands cradled your face like you were the last fragile tape in the archives, his lips soft but insistent, tasting of whiskey and unsung verses. The shelves pressed into your back, demos scattering like imperfect notes around your feet. His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging gently as he deepened the kiss, a silent plea for more, more, more...
“Took you long enough,” a voice drawled.
You broke apart, breathless. Namjoon leaned against the doorway, tossing a USB drive at Yoongi. It landed at your table, labeled “Hyung’s Love Song (Finally)” in Sharpie.
Yoongi glared, cheeks flushed. “How long were you...?”
“Long enough to know you owe me 50,000 won.” Namjoon smirked. “Jin-hyung bet on tonight. I said you’d chicken out till dawn.”
Yoongi flipped him off, but his arm stayed wrapped around your waist, anchoring you to his side.
[Bonus] Epilogue: One Month Later
The OT7 group chat exploded at 8 PM.
Jin: [photo of Yoongi feeding you kimchi jjigae in the cafeteria]
“Grandpa’s first date since 2014!!! Transfer payments, children.”
Jungkook: “WAIT THEY'RE REAL???”
Hobi: “I TOLD YOU ALL IT WAS THE ARCHIVES. PAY UP!!!”
Taehyung: [Screenshots of Yoongi’s Spotify wrapped]
“Since when does hyung listen to Rilke ASMR??”
Yoongi: “Fuck off.”
You: [photo of the USB plugged into Yoongi’s laptop, titled “Love Song (Draft)”]
“Track 1: ”Not Yet” 👀”
namgi + snowed in. <1k.
based on a prompt from @/araleith on bsky
The guy is sweet about it, at least.
“I’m really sorry,” he says, sitting at Yoongi’s table, rubbing the back of his head. Yoongi’s attention keeps sliding to him as he fixes them both coffee, a big dense spot of stranger where usually there’s no one.
Well. Yoongi’s not sure he can still call the guy a stranger after last night—especially not after Yoongi made such a mess of his neck, shit—but the guy’s name has slipped out of his head along with half the evening, leaving him with the impression of hands and lips and the kind of voice he feels beneath his breastbone, which is. Well. A little awkward.
“It’s fine,” Yoongi says. His own voice is shot from his set and the club and everything else that came after. “Milk?”
“Do you have sugar?”
It takes him a moment to fish it out from one of the cabinets. Just another oddity of the morning.
“Sorry,” the guy says again.
“You’re fine,” Yoongi says. “Not gonna throw you out in this.”
The snow has made it up to the threshold of his front door and then some, sifting down in a sheet hazy white. The forecast says they’ll get twice this at least, and the guy says he bikes, and there’s no way in hell any of the taxis are running. Yoongi’s awkward, not heartless.
“Still,” says the guy, like Yoongi’s some bleeding heart or something. Yoongi shrugs.
“Say when.”
The stranger, Yoongi learns, takes his coffee pretty damn sweet.
“Thanks,” the guy laughs as Yoongi drops a spoon into the mug, rubbing the back of his head again. His hair’s buzzed short, bleached. Yoongi had thought it was spray-on, maybe, in the gleam of the club, but no. It’s properly bleached, the expensive sort of even of a good dye job.
“Not a fan?” Yoongi asks, bringing both mugs to the table. The guy takes his with a smile, hands wrapping around the ceramic as he stirs in the sugar. He looks ridiculous, sitting at Yoongi’s table in his shimmery short-sleeve button up from last night with a blanket shrugged over his shoulders. Yoongi’s cranked the heater up as high as it’ll go, but his place has kind of shit heating.
“No, I am, it's just. I don’t know. Habit, y’know?”
“Sure,” says Yoongi, taking a sip. It warms him, hands, chest and belly, and eases some of the throbbing of his head. Across the table, the guy takes a sip too, and he hums in contentment, shoulders easing. The blanket slips down his arm a little, tugging his shirt with it, and Yoongi gets a clearer glimpse of golden skin and even more hickeys.
“Jesus,” he says. “It looks like you got mauled.”
The guy reaches up to touch his neck and makes a face. Kinda embarrassed maybe. Or pleased.
“Yeah. I, uh. Don’t mind.”
Pleased then. Yoongi looks out the window at the endless snowfall and drinks his coffee and ignores the flush creeping up the back of his neck.
They sit in silence for a bit. Yoongi should offer to cook, probably. It's well past time for breakfast. He’s got… what? Eggs. Kimchi. A few wilting vegetables. He could do omelettes, maybe.
“Hey, uh, hyung,” says the guy, interrupting his wandering thoughts. Yoongi looks back at him. Gold skin, dark eyes. It's not fair that he's still handsome the morning after. “Sorry, I know this is— I mean, kinda late for it, right? But, uh. Could I get your name again?”
Yoongi’s first impulse is to laugh, and then he wonders if the guy’ll take it personally, and then he puffs out a breath and stops overthinking it.
“Yoongi,” he says. “Uh. You?”
“Namjoon,” he says, he he laughs a little too. “Kim Namjoon.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure,” laughs Namjoon. “Yeah, I didn’t— I mean. Crazy night.”
“Sure,” Yoongi echoes. “Good though.”
It comes out half a question, and he feels equal parts embarrassed and relieved when Namjoon’s little purse of a smile unfolds into a proper grin, dimples and all.
“Yeah. Real good. We could, uh. Y’know.”
“Hm?”
“Well.” He shrugs. “Not like there’s much else to do. Might be a good way to—" He stops short and looks down. "Jesus, sorry. I sound like a sleaze. I don’t usually do this.”
Yoongi tilts an eyebrow, a little curious about where this is going. “Round two?”
“Stay over.”
“Sorry,” says Yoongi, vaguely guilty on behalf of the weather or his own awkwardness. “If it helps, I don’t usually do this either. Have people stay.”
“Guess that means we’re even. Or, sorry, that doesn’t make sense—“
“I get it.” He does. And it's a nice thought, that maybe they're both a little unsteady. “Don’t need to apologize.”
“Okay.”
Besides. “I'm game.”
“What?”
“It’s fucking freezing,” Yoongi says, and he feels maybe a little greasy when he grins, crooked and slow. “Bet we could figure out a way to stay warm.”
For a moment, Namjoon stares at him, and then he burst out laughing, which is good. Yoongi’s relieved, a little, that he understood the joke. That he's in on it too.
“Sure, yeah. Two smart guys like us? We can put our heads together. Or, y'know.” He leaves it hanging and Yoongi snorts, inelegant. Namjoon's smile gets even wider.
"Yeah, alright. Though maybe I should—" Yoongi glances down at his empty mug. “You want me to brush my teeth?”
“It’s fine,” Namjoon shrugs, already standing. “I’ll be sweet enough for both of us.”
“Not sure it works that way,” Yoongi laughs—but when Namjoon tugs him into a kiss, it’s all sugar.
Dad bod joon, as in he’s self conscious of his body but he’s actually buff as heck, he’s got stretch marks, snarky yoongi, as in he’s a little mean but in a rly hot way
Enjoy some namgi for posterity.
———————————
“Did you hear me? I said take your shirt off.”
“But-”
“Don’t make me say it again,” he bites, and Namjoon scrambles to obey.
Pulling his shirt off, Yoongi is immediately met with the sight of-
Stretches of golden skin, the toned planes of his chest and stomach. And- stretch marks, faded but still prominent, curling around his stomach and hips.
Namjoon looks away, curling into himself, suddenly shy. Yoongi tsks.
“None of that, now,” he says, lifting his chin with a finger.
Namjoon’s breath catches.
Yoongi loves this, the power he wields, Namjoon hanging off his every word with bated breath.
Like this, with Yoongi settling his weight over Namjoon’s lap, the younger’s looking up at him with wide puppy eyes, willing and eager to please.
“So good for me, baby. My obedient little puppy.” he laughs, dipping down to kiss him.
It’s sweet at first, Namjoon surging up to meet him. He’s intent on tasting him, kissing and licking and nipping, drinking him down.
Namjoon kisses until he can’t anymore, and then kisses him some more. He’s insatiable, lapping into his mouth, gripping his jaw and tilting his face to kiss him deeper, hungrier, more.
Yoongi could kiss him for hours.
Namjoon smells like clean soap and coconut, tastes like mint and something else, something indescribable that he can’t get enough of.
“Hyungie …” he whispers against his lips, breath ghosting hot against him, and fuck, that’s hot.
“Shit, Joon-ah,-” Yoongi’s voice is rough, ridiculously affected by the man underneath him.
Namjoon’s skin is almost scalding, the bare skin of his abdomen where he’s pressed up into Yoongi, hips squirming against his thigh, rutting frantically like a dog.
“God, you’re pathetic,” he laughs, falling back into that persona now where he has power. The power that Namjoon gives up, the way he trusts Yoongi to treat him the way he wants to be treated.
“My poor puppy. So desperate.” Yoongi traces a finger down his neck to his chest, fingers curling around a nipple, and Namjoon chokes.
A whine escapes him then, an honest-to-god pathetic little puppy whine, a high pitched thing in the back of his throat.
title: mami (teaser)
pairing: battle rappers!myg/knj x reader(f) , slight jhs x reader(f)😛
rating/genre: m (18+) ; smut ; battle rap au , roommates au
summary: turns out, two of the guys you’ve been hooking up with are battle rappers. and roommates. and the most competitive gd people you’ve ever met.
warnings for fic: [redacted] lmfaooooo🥴🥴🥴
warnings for teaser: cursing, yoongi’s fit, dirty talk, namjoon deserves his own gd warning throughout this whole fic so it’s included in the teaser warnings, too :^))
note: fuuuuuuck me lol. this is also gonna have some heavy 00s vibes so let’s fcking go🦋
est. drop date: jul-aug 2023
est. word count: 15-20k
taglist: join here (will be checking blogs!)
—18+ teaser below if you want to read :)) drops you right in the middle! minors dni.
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Weeks go by and you keep your options super open, with the occasional run-in with Yoongi and the strangely refreshing dates with Namjoon.
As much as you want things to move forward with the latter, he’s kept every meet-up early and short, always checking his phone with pure concentration before heading out.
Did you think about whether or not he had a girl already? Absolutely. But just being able to have nice dinners and talk was pretty fucking harmless considering.
If he finally decides to cave in and split you in two, maybe you’ll re-evaluate. But you hope that happens sooner rather than later because you are aching to feel anything he’d give you.
That and the frustrating fact that he looks more and more attractive with every damn date.
Speaking of attractive things…
One dingy, smoke-filled event on south side, just as you were cussing someone out for slapping your ass, it was Yoongi that shocked you by stepping in, quietly shielding you and taunting,
“You wanna try that again?”
“Fuck outta here, man. Just having a good time.”
When your surprise of a savior aims one slitted eye over his shoulder, he asks,
“You having fun?”
And your arms fold in calm revenge. “Not with him.”
“Didn’t think so.” Turning back around, Yoongi simply eases, “I’ll let you off this time, but only cus she’s listening.”
Your blink is immediate.
“But I better not see your sorry ass anywhere near her by the time I get on stage.”
Safe to say, it didn’t matter if he saw that guy or not.
Because he definitely saw you after the show, right before you tugged his stupid tracksuit into the nearest bathroom.
Ever since the first, all your dates with Namjoon have been innocent.
So it sends shivers across your arms when low words slip into your ear. Words so spiced that they cause your thighs to squirm on the cheap vinyl booth you both occupy,
“I gotta say… I didn’t expect us to talk this much.”
Breath hitching, you slowly turn, fixated on the veins running down his arms while admiring the way neon lights make rainbows of his chains. Not giving much of your own thoughts away, you simply ask,
“This time? Or at all?”
“Honestly?” His smile coats you in a layer of warmth. Which is strange considering how frozen you really feel. “I don’t usually do dates.”
What?
You’ve never moved away so quick. “Wait, really?”
“Oh, shit. Was that bad to say?”
“No, I”—pure relief juts out of your mouth—“Neither do I.”
“No fuckin’ way,” Namjoon challenges with a grin, shaking his head when you nod multiple times. “Nah. You can’t tell me your fine ass has never gone out before.”
“First of all,” you tut, smirking at his true nature coming through, “This ass has been taken out more times than yours.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Mmhmm.” Flipping your head, you give him a mocking once-over, feigning boredom even though you wanna mount those goddamn thighs and ride them into next Wednesday. “I just don’t waste my time dating.”
“Then why’d you keep coming?”
“Why’d you keep asking?”
At your coy tone, Namjoon’s smile grows and grows, and you’re enjoying where this is going an obscene, frightening amount.
Instead of responding, he simply lifts an arm to skirt knuckles right up the front of your dress, finally looping one under the necklace dangling from your neck. When he presses a bold thumb down, you cease breathing as he softly tugs forward, your entire body following without resistance.
And just as your lips hover against his, he challenges,
“Cus if I asked you anything else, you would’ve ran.”
Oh, fuck.
Butterflies scatter at his insinuation, and they fall victim to his honeyed smirk when you taunt,
“Try me.”
What the hell is he gonna say? Based on your earlier conversations, you could tell he has a way with words. You don’t have to spell a single thing out for him, that’s for damn sure.
The look you get is pure sin before he moves to your ear, his mouth hidden from the rest of the bar and hot breath stroking your neck. Anticipation keeps your body fully alert, and yet it still doesn’t prepare you for whatever comes out of this dude’s mouth.
“Like if you’d ever let me paint those tits.”
The fuck.
“Or if you’d let me be the first to make you squirt.”
The fuck?
Your exhale comes out stilted before stuttering out, and your chest physically heaves because—
“What, that’s all it takes to make you shy?”
Holy shit. You haven’t felt this way in years.
Truthfully, you can’t even think up an inkling of a response.
Because the hand on your necklace slides downward, a finger lowering your dress bit. By bit. By bit.
Before letting it spring back with a snap.
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tbc. :)
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💌 l m f a o what do we think!! 💌
A/N: PFFFFFT SO. thank you so much for reading and for all of your support in general. as you can probably tell, i am sweating writing this whole thing if this is what i decide to share as the teaser dklfjdsklf honestly y’all i need all the strength i can muster for these two DEMONS that are haunting the everloving SHIT out of me LMAOOO
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taglist:
⇥ of course, any reblogs/comments/messages are appreciated!
⇥ no emails collected, just put your username and make sure ur age is visible on your blog somewhere so i can see it when i check.
⇥ here!
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⇥ masterlist
“So I can bounce it off your thick skull. This place is one missed step away from a broken leg. Seriously, how many times do I have to tell you I’m right here whenever you need to talk, Joonie?”
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In which boyfriends Namjoon and Yoongi are struggling to figure out ways to communicate with each other. Yoongi gets too gruff and angry sounding when he tries to show he cares. Namjoon retreats into his shell and hides in strange places when he’s overwhelmed.
The most frequented of his hiding spots is an old warehouse that Yoongi thinks is an accident waiting to happen. But it’s the place Namjoon goes to, so it’s nearly always where Yoongi looks for him. And even though Yoongi hates it, it eventually becomes the place they sit and talk. Because Yoongi doesn’t mind risking getting cut on a rusty nail or two if it means putting Namjoon at ease, making him happy.
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“Can we please talk at home on the couch next time?”
