Friends & Fools | One-Shot
Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader
Summary: You and Yoongi have always been just friends—inseparable since childhood, roommates in the city, partners in navigating life’s chaos. At your high school reunion, the questions start: Are you two finally together? Uh, no. But as the night goes on, and Yoongi looks at you like that, hmm—has everyone else seen something you’ve been too scared to admit?
Genre: Fluff, Suggestive, non-idol!au, reunion!au, best friends & roommates to lovers, grumpy x grumpy, when reader is more yoongi than yoongi himself
Warnings: cursing, smoking cigarettes, kissing, allusion to sex
Word count: 2.8k
Posting date: November 26, 2024
Notes: This is a one-shot to celebrate my 500 followers milestone for the blog! Just a cute little something as a thank you making this writer happy. The story was inspired by two asks: 1) lovely anon who wanted to talk about Yoongi at Jimmy Fallon; 2) kookiewithluv who sent me the softest, smiliest, fluffiest d-day Yoongi photos that I just couldn’t help myself.
Enjoy, my lovelies~ 💕
Masterlist
MIN YOONGI 101 is a course you could’ve taught in school. It’s a subject matter you’ve mastered somewhere between the sandbox (when he was the kid hoarding plastic shovels in the playground) and the shoebox (the over-priced apartment that you both decided to rent together after uni).
It’s ‘cause you’ve always been good at watching him. You’ve picked up all his visual cues, his weird quirks, his tells.
Tonight is no different. From across the room, in the too-bright glare of your high school gym’s rented stage lights, you catch the tell-tale pinch of his brow, the mindless nodding that means he’s enduring yet another overly enthusiastic former classmate. Someone’s laughing too loud in his face, and he responds the same way he always does—with a small, polite smile and a glance at his drink like it’s his lifeline.
You’d know that look anywhere.
Yoongi catches your eye then, like he can feel your energy slicing through the crowd, and his lips twitch. The faintest ghost of a smirk, the kind he reserves just for you. He raises his glass, and you do the same from across the room. A silent message of we're too fucking sober to be in this joint. He holds your gaze and you watch as he inadvertently inserts the straw up one nostril, giggling because that wouldn’t be the first time. He shakes his head and puts it back in his mouth for a sip.
It’s comforting, really. That tether between you and Yoongi.
Even if the two of you are apparently the only ones here who don’t see what everyone else does.
You are standing by the endlessly classy boxed wine on the buffet table, watching your old classmates get progressively tipsier under dim lighting. Yoongi stands next to you, unabashedly drinking whiskey straight from his flask. He looks real sharp in a tailored blazer, with a casual t-shirt underneath, mumbling earlier that day how he cannot be arsed to fiddle with a necktie, even though it’s always you who has been fixing it for job interviews, funerals, formal occasions etc. for him for the past years. Secretly you think he knew that wearing that t-shirt actually just made him look effortlessly cool.
Someone from across the room waves, and you recognize it to be Hyorin, your former lab partner who was also a cheerleader or something, making her way toward you. “Oh my God, you two!” she exclaims, beaming. “You finally got together, huh?”
Yoongi chokes on his drink, and you nearly drop your solo.
“Nooo,” Yoongi drawls, dragging the word out with a mix of disbelief and amusement.
Hyorin frowns, tilting her head. “Wait. You’re not a couple?”
You both shake your heads so emphatically it looked rehearsed.
“Nope,” you say, popping the P.
“Not even fucking?”
The audacity of this chick, though?
“Not even close,” Yoongi answers, but his voice sounded oddly tight.
Hyorin gives you both a skeptical once-over before laughing. “Okay, sure. Whatever you guys say.” She leaves, shaking her head like you’ve just told her the earth is flat, didn’t you know that?
They’re really starting to piss you off, ngl.
“Okay, but seriously,” Jihyo, who was in the band with you and one of the few people you’ve kept some form of contact with (hence can tolerate), hisses. “You’re really still not together?”
It was your turn to choke on your drink. “Hajimaaa! Why does everyone keep asking me that? Y’all wanna shoot your shot with Yoongi, go! I don’t give a fuck.”
Jihyo gives you a look like you’re the most oblivious person on earth. “This is exactly why I think you’re into him. Not everyone wants to date him, girl. We’re just curious about you two.”
“I—fuck you, actually. Give me one good reason why you think we’re a… thing.”
“Because you and Yoongi have been attached at the hip since we were all kids? Because you practically morphed into the same person? Because he’s literally looked at you the same way since he had that awful mushroom cut in fourth grade?”
“It wasn’t a mushroom cut. It was…” You cringe. “Yeah, it was a mushroom cut.”
You both giggle, then she asks, swirling the remains of her wine. “But seriously. Everyone thought you finally figured it out. You two moved in together a couple of months ago, no?”
“Yeah, because rent’s insane, I hate people, and he hates people, so we’re perfect roommates.”
Jihyo raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Mmhmm. Roommates. Sure.”
You roll your eyes, but the words stick with you as the night drags on, looping in your head as more classmates approach with the same comments. It’s exhausting. You’re about to grab your coat and drag Yoongi out of here when you feel a familiar figure at your side.
“You okay?” Yoongi asks, voice low, his shoulder brushing yours.
“I’m fine,” you sigh. “Just… everyone keeps asking why we’re not dating.”
Yoongi scoffs, his tongue clicking against his teeth. “What’d you tell ‘em?”
“The truth.”
He smirks again, but it’s sharper this time, laced with something you can’t quite name. “And what’s that?”
“That you’re a chronically unavailable workaholic and are too emotionally constipated to be anyone’s boyfriend.”
He huffs a laugh, shoulders bobbing. “Ouch,” he says, but his eyes are soft, the way they get when he looks at you sometimes, warm and wistful.
You look away first, clearing your throat, suddenly remembering what Jihyo said about how he looks at you. “Well, you’re not exactly ideal boyfriend material.”
Yoongi shrugs, mouth forming a straight line. “Fair.”
Anyway, you know you’re no dream girl, either. He is just way too soft for you to say it to your face.
Between the two of you, your combined dating history looks like a collection of UN flags, except they’re all red.
Him with his too-whiny, needy bitches, who have far too high expectations of him and he is just not the guy to validate their feelings 24 fucking 7. He has things to do (produce) and places to be (his studio).
And you, with your love bombers and commitment-phobes that have got you questioning if there’s something wrong with you because they always lose interest down the line. (Yoongi says they're all assholes btw, and you are inclined to believe him, despite lingering self-doubt.)
You always joked that no one else understood either of you the way you understood each other.
But aren’t jokes half-meant?
By the time the reunion starts winding down, you’re tipsy enough that the edges of the night feel soft and fuzzy. You’re outside, leaning against the brick wall of the building with Yoongi, his jacket draped over your shoulders because he’s simply gentlemanly like that. Raised well by his eomma who you equally adore.
“You didn’t have to stay this long,” he says, lighting a cigarette.
You watch the glow of it as he inhales, the faint tremble of his fingers in the cold. “Neither did you.”
He shrugs, exhaling a thin ribbon of smoke. “I wasn’t gonna let you suffer alone.”
Something warm pools in your chest. “Thanks. And, same.”
The quiet stretches between you, the kind of comfortable silence only Yoongi can manage. It’s strange how natural it feels, just existing with him like this. Like it’s enough.
You gesture to the stick, then he slowly brings it to your lips.
You exhale the smoke as you tilt your head back to look at the stars—or what few stars there are on this cloudy night—and ask the question that’s been sitting heavy on your tongue all night.
“Why do you think everyone assumes we’re together?”
Yoongi doesn’t answer right away, but you can feel the heaviness of his gaze on you like it’s settling on your shoulders.
“I dunno,” he says eventually, voice quiet. “Maybe because we act like we are.”
Hol’ up. “What do you mean?”
He takes another drag of his cigarette, exhaling slow. “I mean… we know each other better than anyone else. We live together. Spend all our time together. Maybe they think it just makes sense.”
Your heart stutters. “Does it?”
Yoongi stills, blinks like he’s trying to suss out where you’re going with this. “What’s up with you?”
“I don’t know,” you admit, your voice teeny-tiny. “Just… do you ever think maybe we’ve been—”
“Idiots?” he cuts in, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
You laugh, but it’s shaky. “Yeah. That.”
Yoongi looks at you then, really looks at you, and you feel like the ground might give out beneath you. There’s something in his expression, something raw and vulnerable and scared. Like he’s standing on the edge of something, just waiting for you to push him over.
“Sometimes,” he says finally, his voice rough.
It’s not an admission, not exactly, but it’s enough to make your pulse race.
“Yoongi,” you start, but the words catch in your throat.
He snuffs the cigarette against the wall and tosses it towards the can. Then, he steps closer, close enough that you can see the faint moles on his face, the curve of his lashes as he blinks down at you.
“You wanna go home?” he asks, his voice softer now, almost hesitant.
You know what he’s really asking.
You say yes.
The walk to the subway station is quiet. Tense.
The back of his hand brushes yours as you walk along the sidewalk, and neither of you moves away.
The subway ride back to your apartment is also quiet. Tense.
Yoongi doesn’t say much, but his knee brushes yours every time the train sways, and neither of you moves away.
By the time you’re back in your apartment, your brain is mushy and your head feels like it’s about to explode as you keep rewinding and replaying the events of the night, every classmate that alluded to your relationship, his lingering glance, sharing the cigarette, every half-formed word between you... Fuck.
Yoongi kicks off his shoes by the door, pushing it under the rack. You stand there awkwardly, the weight of everything unsaid pressing down on you.
“Tea?” he asks, already moving toward the kitchen.
“No.” Your voice comes out too abrupt, too sharp, and he freezes.
He turns slowly, eyes searching yours. “You ok?”
“No.” You take a deep breath, your heart pounding. “I think we’ve been avoiding this for a long time.”
Yoongi blinks, but you know he is just pretending not to understand what you meant. “Avoiding what?”
“This,” you say, gesturing between you. “Us.”
There’s a beat of silence, and then— “Mm.”
Mm. That’s all he says, like you haven’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of your tiny living room.
“Yoongi,” you say, stepping closer. “Do you—”
“Yeah,” he interrupts, nodding as he bites down on his lower lip. “I do.”
The air shifts between you, and suddenly you’re not sure who moves first, but then his warm hands are on your face and your fingers are tangled in his shirt and his mouth is on yours, and—
Oh.
Damn.
His lips are softer than you imagined—not that you spent countless late nights pining, but if you had, this would surpass every hypothetical. He kisses like he does everything else: deliberate, unhurried, sure. His hands slide down from your face to rest on your waist.
The sigh that slips from your lips is involuntary, but it’s enough for him to push further. His tongue brushes against your bottom lip, coaxing you open, and when he deepens the kiss, tasting you, it uncoils the knot that’s been tight in your belly all night. Yoongi tastes faintly like whiskey, like cigarettes, and something else so distinctly him and you’re endlessly intoxicated.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, nails grazing the nape of his neck, and the low, guttural noise he makes in response sends a shockwave through you. Heat settles in your core, spreading with an intensity that takes you by surprise. Because omg–this is not some hot stranger you met at a bar. This is your goddamn best friend, whose hand is now dangerously encroaching on the swell of your ass.
You hadn’t expected this—not the kiss, not the pleasure, not the way he makes you feel like you’re in some version of paradise.
You’re melting with every curl of his tongue, every shift in the way his lips move against yours. It’s the kind of intimacy that makes the rest of the world fall away, until the only thing you’re aware of is the feel of him—his warmth, his certainty, the way he kisses like he already knows this is how it should’ve been in the first place–a sureness you hadn’t expected.
It’s not just passion—it’s belonging, the sense that every piece of you slots perfectly into place with him. Like the years of laughter, arguments, and everything in between have all been leading here. His hands now circling your waist feel steady, like they’ve always known where to hold you even though this is the very first time.
And in that moment, kissing Yoongi feels like coming home—warm, certain, complete. A place you hadn’t known you were searching for, because you’ve always been with him, and now you can’t imagine ever leaving.
When you finally pull away, his lips are swollen, and his eyes are a bit moist, blinking blankly like he can’t fathom what just happened. His arms loosen their hold on you, just a bit, and suddenly, you can see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
And for a second, your stomach churns, worried that the wheels in his head are turning and it’s telling him that this was not it.
Finally he speaks. “Was that weird?”
You huff out a breath, a cross between a chuckle and a sigh of relief, because God. Yoongi could be pressed against you, breathless and flushed, and he’d still overthink. You really belong together.
“Not weird,” you say softly, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “Weirdly perfect, maybe.”
He exhales sharply, relief flooding his features. “Fuck, okay. Good. Because if it sucked for you, I’d have to move out. And in this economy???”
You swat his chest, laughing again, but then his arms tighten around you again, holding you close, and the teasing fades into something softer. It’s not lost on you that this is the longest you’ve ever touched each other. Two socially awkward fools who are secretly touch-starved now finally getting what they’ve been craving for but have been too shy to admit it.
“Seriously, though,” he says, a lopsided grin decorating his lips. “What happens next?”
You tilt your head, pretending to think. “Hmm. You could still make tea if you want?”
He groans, his head dropping to your shoulder. “You’re the worst.”
"Or…" you say, sliding your hands across his chest, your fingers lingering just enough to feel his breath hitch beneath your touch. You push his blazer off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud. "We could… you know."
Yoongi lifts his head, and the look in his eyes makes your heart trip over itself. There’s heat there, sure, but beneath it lies something deeper, something that feels vulnerable. "Are we really doing this?"
And you know what he means. Because again, you know Min Yoongi inside out. And he’s known you. But now you’re ready to bare everything that’s left to discover.
"I’ve never been more sure of anything," you say, your voice steady in a way that surprises even you.
His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, his last bit of hesitation melting away as he nods.
You step back, your movements slow, deliberate. Turning away from him, you reach for the straps of your dress and slide them down your shoulders, feeling the fabric loosen as you take a few steps toward his room. You glance back over your shoulder, a smirk tugging at your lips. "Are you coming?"
He grins, gummy and warm, and it’s so achingly Yoongi that your chest tightens. "I would hope so…"
You roll your eyes stifling a laugh, because he’s stupid, because he’s him. And because you’ve never loved (wait... what?) anyone more in your entire life. "C’mere then," you tease, the words soft, daring, as your dress slips to the floor and pools around your ankles.
He breathes out, a sound that’s almost a laugh, almost disbelief. "Okay," he says, his voice low, quiet, like he’s agreeing to something more than just this moment.
And maybe he is. Maybe this is the easiest thing in the world, the most inevitable thing that’s ever happened to either of you.
And now, finally, you’re both ready to admit it.
:)
A/N: EEEEKKKK Please tell me what you thought about the story! I'd appreciate feedback if you loved it, hated it, and if it made you feel a certain way.
Thank you for reading this you lovely, beautiful human xo
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