Namgi au - a thread

10 years is a long time to know someone. Namjoon feels lucky to have had Yoongi by his side for a decade. They’ve been through a lot.

Awards shows. Aggressive paparazzi. Saesangs. Long nights, missed meals, jet lag. They’ve endured it all together, and for that, Namjoon is grateful to have had Yoongi with him for it all.

After performances, Namjoon can’t help but feel nostalgic, his mind wandering to their early years. Can’t help but smile when he thinks of he and Yoongi living together before the others—a pair before they were a septet.

After shows, he always feels a rush of adrenaline, chemicals coursing through his body, urging him to remember and relive, replay those days of eyeliner and bad haircuts, giddy excitement at having even 100 fans at a show. They’ve come a long way. And Yoongi has been there.

“Do you ever think about those days?” Namjoon asks quietly, dragging his finger along the seam of Yoongi’s leather pants. They may as well be painted on they’re so tight.

“Not if I can help it,” Yoongi scoffs. He’s tired. Namjoon can see it in his sagging shoulders, the way his head is tilted against the glass.

“I mean /those/ days,” Namjoon says, sliding his palm along Yoongi’s thigh. That gets his attention.

Yoongi smirks, eyes flicking down to see Namjoon’s eager hand. “Oh /those/ days? How could I forget? You were so needy, you’d grab at me before we’d even get in the car.”

“Can you blame me?” Namjoon asks, cocking an eyebrow. “You were so hot—cocky and young, dripping sweat, swagger. God.” Namjoon lets out a small groan.

“You calling me old and ugly now?” Yoongi asks, a devilish grin on his face.

“Never,” Namjoon whispers. And he means it. When they changed eras, swapped stylists, leaned into their true personalities and styles, Yoongi flourished.

When Yoongi was stripped of eyeliner and gaudy gold jewelry, he looked softer, but somehow stronger. With each year, he grew more comfortable, looser with his affection. Namjoon loved having Yoongi this way—gentle and unabashed, tender in his gaze and touch.

But something about Yoongi styled in all black, clad in leather pants, hit Namjoon with a rush of nostalgia, a surge of attraction like what he felt years ago when they were younger, tougher, more desperate to touch one another.

It was a strange feeling: to miss Yoongi from 2014 when he had Yoongi /now/, tonight in their blacked out SUV. Maybe it was the memory of rushed handjobs, sloppy kisses behind audio equipment—the thrill of kissing him after a performance.

Yoongi grins, watching as Namjoon doesn’t try to hide his desire, the way he bites his lip, whispers /hyung/ in a way that’s a little too needy—at least with their driver so close. But he doesn’t stop Namjoon.

“So what are you thinking about then, Joon?” Yoongi asks, voice rough and smug. Like a match struck and lit, burning straight down to Namjoon’s gut.

“Remember our first tour? When we finally wrapped and you let me finally kiss you?” Namjoon leans closer to Yoongi, his breath heavy and warm against his ear.

“Ah, when you stuck your hand down my pants by the craft services table?” Yoongi laughs, shaking his head. “Almost got caught.”

“You liked it,” Namjoon snaps, his hand squeezing at Yoongi’s thigh, fingernails gripping his pants, the leather so tight, it’s like a second skin.

Namjoon wants these pants off /now/, wants to feel his teeth drag along the smooth, pale, tender skin of Yoongi’s thighs, wants to lick the salt from every inch of his sweaty body. He’s done it before. He aches to do it again.

“Hmm,” Yoongi hums, diverting his gaze out the car window. “Maybe I did. Been so long, why would I remember that?” He licks his lip, chewing at it before turning to Namjoon with a wolfish grin. “Remind me?”

Back at the hotel, Namjoon is on his knees, tugging at the stubborn leather, peeling each pant leg slowly from Yoongi’s skin. Yoongi watches, enjoying the view from above.

Namjoon grunts, muttering about how hard it is to free Yoongi from the pants. Yoongi watches, grinning fondly, fingers lazily twirling in Namjoon’s soft hair. God, he fucking loves this dork.

Namjoon leans down further, hands working to pull Yoongi’s foot from one pant leg. Emboldened, Yoongi props his foot up on Namjoon’s thigh, his heavy boot buckles jangling with the motion.

Namjoon looks so /small/ like this, like a personal footstool, and it makes Yoongi’s sleepy grin turn darker. They haven’t played like this in awhile.

As they’ve gotten older, they’ve each filled out, but Namjoon grew taller, broader, thicker, his new shape dwarfing Yoongi’s new muscular build, and Yoongi /loves/ it. Loves that he has the large, bossy demeanor, and Namjoon has the brawn.

But in this moment? Yoongi is bigger, powerful over Namjoon.

Namjoon senses the shift in their energy, can see the expectant, smug look on Yoongi’s face. “You want me to lick your soles, hyung?”

The facade breaks, and Yoongi laughs in wheezy, breathy puffs. “Oh god no, not if you want your tongue anywhere near my mouth.”

Namjoon stands, a dopey grin on his face, and he grabs Yoongi’s cheeks, kisses him roughly.

Yoongi sputters and laughs, pushing Namjoon’s hands away. “Finish taking off my pants, dude. Stay on track.” Yoongi swats at Namjoon, his face softer now—the look he’s reserved only for him.

“Yessir,” Namjoon teases. He clasps his hands around Yoongi’s ankle—his delicate, thin, /perfect/ ankle—and slips his foot out of the chunky boot. Lacking patience, he tugs at Yoongi’s pants until they come off unceremoniously.

10 years, and the sight of Yoongi’s slender, porcelain legs still makes Namjoon weak. The hem of his oversized t-shirt hangs mid-thigh, and it takes every bit of resolve for Namjoon not to throw Yoongi over his shoulder and fling him on the bed.

No, he wants to worship Yoongi—take it slow, shower him in praises and gentle touches. Yoongi emotes toughness all night, plays the role of a swaggery braggart.

It exhausts Yoongi, so Namjoon wants to help him turn that persona off. Step back into his soft self, the one who loves to beg for release, who blushes and preens at any praise.

Namjoon wants to worship Yoongi. Lick the sweat from along his sweaty hairline. Make Yoongi sigh and whimper with his hands, his mouth. Wants to fill him back up with all the energy he pours out on stage.

“Baby,” Yoongi murmurs, tucking the hair behind Namjoon’s ear. That’s all he needs to say. Namjoon knows that sound, knows that gesture is Yoongi’s way of asking to be touched.

“Baby,” Namjoon replies, wrapping his arms around Yoongi’s knobby knees, pulling him closer. He nuzzles against Yoongi’s legs, leaves light kisses along his thighs.

Namjoon’s hands travel up Yoongi’s thighs, hands slipping under his shirt, stopping to grip his ass. “God, I could eat you alive,” Namjoon pants, giving Yoongi’s ass a squeeze.

“Then what are you waiting for?” Yoongi grins, fingers threading through Namjoon’s hair. He loves to see Namjoon like this: greedy and ravenous, a bit awestruck.

10 years, and Namjoon still looks at Yoongi like he might not be real, like he’s not giving himself to Namjoon, silently begging to feel him all over. The soft look in Namjoon’s eyes makes Yoongi’s heart race, makes him feel hotter and more desired than anything else.

You can read the rest of this story on ao3: "Second Skin"
3k words
~porn with feelings~
established Namgi
https://archiveofourown.org/works/23504782