G dragon x idol reader and they have like a mini age gap? (Maybe 6-5 years (the reader is younger)) just any scenario with this hc. Here are some idea’s <3
> Something similar to the fic of “YG’s weirdo’s”
> a hangout in his house
> anything you prefer <3
Just not seeing much age gap fics wanted to make this req :D
⭒❃.✮:▹ “Wednesdays and Vinyl” ◃:✮.❃⭒
Genre: Idol x Idol (established relationship), fluff, subtle angst, slice of life, domesticity, lowkey introspection
WC: ~3.3k
Notes: reader is 5–6 years younger than GD, but established, mature, and independent; they’ve known each other for a while. There’s no power imbalance, just nuance, admiration, and layered affection. I made. GD younger than his actual age (6years younger) bc for me 30-36 age gap will not be “weirdly seen” by other people, its for the plot trust
hii thank you for requesting! comments and reposts are always appreciated
You didn’t knock. Not because you were rude — you just didn’t need to anymore.
He told you once: “This place is as much yours as mine. No code, no red tape.” You’d rolled your eyes at the time, said something like “So dramatic,” but truthfully, you remembered every word.
Tonight, his studio lights were off, but the lamp in the living room was on. Warm, yellow. The kind of light that made everything feel a little softer. A little slower.
You walked in and slipped your shoes off at the door. The hallway smelled like lavender and worn-out incense. Familiar. Comforting. Just like him.
“Yah,” came his voice from the living room. “Took you long enough.”
You peeked around the corner. He was lying half-sprawled on the couch, hoodie too big, socks mismatched, one arm thrown over his eyes.
“You said 9:30. It’s 9:24.”
“Technicalities.” He lifted his head, pushed his hood back. “I missed you, though.”
You snorted, tossing your bag onto the armchair. “You literally FaceTimed me three hours ago from the studio.”
“Not the same,” he murmured. “That was Producer Me. This is Just Me.”
You padded over, flopping onto the couch beside him, knees brushing his thigh. “Okay, Just You. What’s tonight’s plan?”
He cracked one eye open. “We eat, talk shit, listen to records, maybe dance. You sing, I pretend to rap.”
“So… like always?”
He smirked. “Exactly.”
The two of you sat cross-legged on the rug, surrounded by the glow of the record player and soft shadows dancing on the walls. You had his hoodie on now — oversized and worn-in, the drawstrings frayed from him chewing on them during mixing sessions
A Miles Davis vinyl spun slowly, old jazz humming through the room like it had nowhere else to be. Neither did you.
“Your Hyung called me again today,” you said, tearing a piece of dried mango and popping it in your mouth.
“Which one?”
You tilted your head. “The one who still thinks we’re weird for being… whatever this is.”
G-Dragon hummed, leaning back on his palms. “A 6-year gap isn’t weird when you’re thirty and twenty-four. They just remember you as a rookie. Makes them twitchy.”
“They remember me as seventeen,” you muttered, then added quickly, “Even though I’m not anymore.”
He looked at you, gaze softer now, like he was reading something between your words.
“You’re not,” he agreed. “You haven’t been that version of you in a long time.”
You picked at your cuticle. “Still feels like I’m always being compared to that girl. Even by myself.”
GD sat up and gently grabbed your wrist, brushing his thumb over your hand.
“They only remember her because she was loud, hungry, and scared of nothing. That’s not something to run from.”
You looked up at him — that quiet confidence in his eyes, the years in them, the comfort he always exuded. He wasn’t perfect. He could be blunt. Moody. But with you, he was careful. Not fragile careful. Careful like he respected the weight of what you carried, too.
“You always do that,” you said.
“Do what?”
“Say something that makes me stop spiraling. Like it’s easy.”
He grinned, leaning forward to kiss your forehead. “It’s not easy. You’re just that important to me.”
The air shifted. Not heavy, just charged — like static before a thunderstorm or silence before an encore.
Later, you were curled up against him on the couch, the world outside silent and the blanket draped over both of you. You scrolled through his old photos on his iPad — he didn’t mind. Half of them had you in them anyway.
“This one,” you said, holding it up. “2019. I was still in my second group. You wore that ugly green hat for the whole damn week.”
“It was iconic,” he defended.
“It was hideous.”
He smiled, fingers tracing your arm absentmindedly. “You were always watching back then. Even when you pretended you weren’t.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Watching what?”
“Me.”
You scoffed, but your ears flushed. “Whatever, old man.”
“Old enough to remember you mouthing my verses backstage when you thought I couldn’t see.”
You slapped his arm, laughing. “Why are you like this?”
He caught your hand, laced his fingers with yours.
“Because I get to be,” he said softly. “With you.”
The clock ticked past midnight. The records had stopped spinning. But you stayed.
You always did.
And maybe that’s what made this feel so different from everything else — not the music, not the house, not even the years between you.
It was that no matter how much time passed, or how different your worlds sometimes felt, he never made you feel smaller for being younger, newer, still learning.
He just saw you.
And in a world that constantly tried to tell you who you were — that meant everything.