accountant. {namjoon/yoongi, pg15}
namjoon/yoongi, implied namjoon/hoseok, implied yoongi/hoseok, implied yoongi/jimin, past namjoon/seokjin - 1.4k - pg15
“okay, but, like-” and yoongi gets the distinct feeling that hoseok has been over today, and that his roommate probably smells like marijuana upon closer inspection, and the only real problem he has with that is that he missed what was surely a two-man party, knowing them. “i always thought you’d be a photographer, or something… artsy."
warnings: implied drug use, sexual themes.
“Being an accountant doesn’t fit you at all,” Namjoon decidedly announces one evening, reclining back on Yoongi’s couch like the freeloader he is, eyeing the older male as he steps through the doorway of their shared apartment with a huff and a groan.
He already had his suit jacket slung over his arm, irritation written all over his face, but he wasn't entirely disgruntled when he cast a sharp look at Namjoon as he entered, noting the sound of some random horror movie playing in the background. “It pays the bills,” Yoongi retorts back, closing the door with a click and slinking off into the kitchen to get a bottle of water or something else to fill his stomach, as was his nightly ritual after work.
“Okay, but, like-” and Yoongi gets the distinct feeling that Hoseok has been over today, and that his roommate probably smells like marijuana upon closer inspection, and the only real problem he has with that is that he missed what was surely a two-man party, knowing them. “I always thought you’d be a photographer, or something… artsy. Not counting numbers and resembling that guy from that one American movie- what was it, Brawl Club? Fight-something? Fight Clu-”
“The first rule of Fight Club is that you don’t talk about Fight Club,” Yoongi offhandedly interjects from the refrigerator door, interrupting Namjoon just slightly while he rummages around for that takeout that he knew should be in here somewhere, he just needed to push some of this shit out of the way-
“Right, right, Fight Club, that’s what it’s called,” and Namjoon says the English title as he’s so fond to do, always flaunting his usage of the language whenever he has the chance. “Anyways, like I was saying- you shouldn’t do that to yourself, man. See what happened to the main dude in the movie? He started blowing stuff up. Numbers are not good for people.”
“I’m pretty sure the guy who wrote Fight Club didn’t know anything about how brains work. Or mental illnesses.” Yoongi criticizes, still looking for his beloved noodles.
Namjoon worries on the thought for a moment before shrugging, nodding in agreement. “Still doesn’t change the fact that your job sucks, and you deserve better.”
“I don’t see you trying to get a job, do I?” Seriously, where is it? He swears to god, if Hoseok ate his food again-
“I’m still a student.” Namjoon shrugs, just a little. “I’ve got a year left before I have to succumb to societal demands and get set on some shitty career like you, hyung.”
“You’re lucky I’m letting you stay in my apartment after Seokjin broke up with you,” Yoongi grumbles. The whole breaking-Namjoon’s-heart thing was pretty old news, enough so that they could talk about it, but Yoongi remembered when even the thought of his ex was enough to send Namjoon back into bed for days, curled up in a fetal position and refusing even the most mouth-watering things Yoongi could order in an attempt to draw him back out of seclusion.
“It’s only because you love me,” Namjoon quips back, an upturn of his mouth that always predates his legendary, infectious, shit-eating grins. Yoongi thanks God he can’t see over the counter.
“I would like to request for evidence to be presented to the jury for this outlandish claim, Mister Kim,” Yoongi says lowly and in humor, having given up on the missing takeout in favor of some fries that were probably twelve hours shy of going rotten.
“Come over here, and I’ll show you.”
The offer is tempting, but so is food, and Yoongi only snorts, now looking for something else to accompany his find of old, soggy french fries. “Not when you smell like sweat and Horse-seok.”
“Excuse me, that’s unprecedented coming from Min Yoongi, corrupter of hearts and bane to the sweet kid down the street that still comes around looking for “Syub-hyung” or whatever it is he calls you.”
“His name is Jimin.”
“Yes,” Namjoon says wryly, “that’s right. Jimin. I thought I’d remember that with how often he ‘stays the night’ in your room.”
“At least I don’t invite people over all the time who eat other people’s good food without even having the decency to replace it,” Yoongi grumbles yet again, sour over the loss of his precious jajangmyeon.
There’s a little silence before Namjoon responds, a grin in his voice. “Hobi hyung is innocent, Your Honor, I swear.”
“Kim Namjoon!” Yoongi screeches in mock horror and in not-so-mock offense, head finally appearing again from behind the counter. “I called dibs on that!”
“Weed makes me hungry,” he whines in response. “Besides, you always eat my takeout.”
“And you always take my place on the couch,” the elder says, a slight pout in his voice while he pads back out of the kitchen, scavenged food forgotten, one hand on his hip, looking every bit ready to lecture and admonish his best friend on the roommate etiquette of dude, don't eat my food.
Namjoon is just giving him a lazy, coy look, melted into the couch in a way that all college guys seemed to have down to an art.
“You could sit in my lap,” he suggests, and Yoongi just rolls his eyes and pretends to gag a little.
“Ew, no, I know what you’ve been doing with who today, no thanks,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“As if you haven’t slept with Hoseok,” because seriously, Jung Hoseok is kind of the dorm bicycle, no strings attached. The only people he hadn’t slept with were the abstinent and the resilient, because Hoseok was harder to resist than a chocolate cake presented to a diabetic having a really, really bad day. The only downside was the fact that he smelled like he only showered about half the time he should, but that could be chalked up to hanging out with a dance major- they always smelled, period, no questions asked. It came with the package. Regretfully.
And Yoongi is decidedly silent, instead finding the intricacies of putting his suit jacket on the hook by the door much more interesting.
Namjoon gives him a knowing look, shaking his head with a little snicker. “Man, we are so inbred.”
“You say that like we’re related,” is Yoongi’s reply, before, “ew, no, never mind, let’s not, thanks, bye.” Just because their group was close enough that people occasionally thought they were actually brothers didn’t mean it was okay to start making jokes about it, ew.
Namjoon snorts out a sharp laugh, while Yoongi approaches his place on the couch, still wearing a sour expression while he starts to finger the knot in his tie. “I still don’t think being an accountant suits you at all, hyung,” Namjoon says, watching with a critical eye, while Yoongi rolls his eyes again, plopping down next to him.
“It’s a temporary job, until one of my gigs pick up,” Yoongi says offhandedly, scowling at his tie, unable to make it come undone right, distracted with his fingers fumbling around smooth fabric.
“The suit looks good, though,” and the elder immediately picks up the tone in the younger’s voice, looking up to give him a warning glare. “What?” Namjoon laughs, incredulous, and yeah, he was definitely high earlier. “I’m allowed to be honest with my best friend.”
“You smell like horse feet and weed,” Yoongi retorts, declining the numerous subtle offers that Namjoon continues to offer him, albeit with weakening resolve.
“I’ve smelled like worse and you haven’t complained this much,” Namjoon muses, lips quirked up in an amused smile, leaning in just slightly. He smells exactly as Yoongi described, but he’ll admit, he’s used to it from being friends with the man in question who left Namjoon in that state, so he’s not nearly as opposed to it as he claims. “Do you need some help with that?”
Namjoon’s hand finds it’s way onto Yoongi’s tie, and he examines the fabric, eyebrows up in contemplation and the wry expression of a man who knew just how to talk his way into just about anyone’s pants. It was remarkable, really, knowing that this was the same guy who-- two years and a number of unmentionably bad haircuts ago-- couldn’t talk to girls for the life of him. Now he was one of the more- promiscuous members of their little group, and Yoongi couldn’t say it actually upset him if he tried.
“Not really,” is the small lie that comes out of the elder’s mouth, smiling himself just slightly. “I think I can handle it, Superman.”
“Mhmm,” is Namjoon’s disbelieving response, before he draws Yoongi in slowly by his tie, promptly silencing any other complaints the elder had with his lips. “You keep telling yourself that.”
“okay, but, like-” and yoongi gets the distinct feeling that hoseok has been over today, and that his roommate probably smells like marijuana upon closer inspection, and the only real problem he has with that is that he missed what was surely a two-man party, knowing them. “i always thought you’d be a photographer, or something… artsy."
warnings: implied drug use, sexual themes.
“Being an accountant doesn’t fit you at all,” Namjoon decidedly announces one evening, reclining back on Yoongi’s couch like the freeloader he is, eyeing the older male as he steps through the doorway of their shared apartment with a huff and a groan.
He already had his suit jacket slung over his arm, irritation written all over his face, but he wasn't entirely disgruntled when he cast a sharp look at Namjoon as he entered, noting the sound of some random horror movie playing in the background. “It pays the bills,” Yoongi retorts back, closing the door with a click and slinking off into the kitchen to get a bottle of water or something else to fill his stomach, as was his nightly ritual after work.
“Okay, but, like-” and Yoongi gets the distinct feeling that Hoseok has been over today, and that his roommate probably smells like marijuana upon closer inspection, and the only real problem he has with that is that he missed what was surely a two-man party, knowing them. “I always thought you’d be a photographer, or something… artsy. Not counting numbers and resembling that guy from that one American movie- what was it, Brawl Club? Fight-something? Fight Clu-”
“The first rule of Fight Club is that you don’t talk about Fight Club,” Yoongi offhandedly interjects from the refrigerator door, interrupting Namjoon just slightly while he rummages around for that takeout that he knew should be in here somewhere, he just needed to push some of this shit out of the way-
“Right, right, Fight Club, that’s what it’s called,” and Namjoon says the English title as he’s so fond to do, always flaunting his usage of the language whenever he has the chance. “Anyways, like I was saying- you shouldn’t do that to yourself, man. See what happened to the main dude in the movie? He started blowing stuff up. Numbers are not good for people.”
“I’m pretty sure the guy who wrote Fight Club didn’t know anything about how brains work. Or mental illnesses.” Yoongi criticizes, still looking for his beloved noodles.
Namjoon worries on the thought for a moment before shrugging, nodding in agreement. “Still doesn’t change the fact that your job sucks, and you deserve better.”
“I don’t see you trying to get a job, do I?” Seriously, where is it? He swears to god, if Hoseok ate his food again-
“I’m still a student.” Namjoon shrugs, just a little. “I’ve got a year left before I have to succumb to societal demands and get set on some shitty career like you, hyung.”
“You’re lucky I’m letting you stay in my apartment after Seokjin broke up with you,” Yoongi grumbles. The whole breaking-Namjoon’s-heart thing was pretty old news, enough so that they could talk about it, but Yoongi remembered when even the thought of his ex was enough to send Namjoon back into bed for days, curled up in a fetal position and refusing even the most mouth-watering things Yoongi could order in an attempt to draw him back out of seclusion.
“It’s only because you love me,” Namjoon quips back, an upturn of his mouth that always predates his legendary, infectious, shit-eating grins. Yoongi thanks God he can’t see over the counter.
“I would like to request for evidence to be presented to the jury for this outlandish claim, Mister Kim,” Yoongi says lowly and in humor, having given up on the missing takeout in favor of some fries that were probably twelve hours shy of going rotten.
“Come over here, and I’ll show you.”
The offer is tempting, but so is food, and Yoongi only snorts, now looking for something else to accompany his find of old, soggy french fries. “Not when you smell like sweat and Horse-seok.”
“Excuse me, that’s unprecedented coming from Min Yoongi, corrupter of hearts and bane to the sweet kid down the street that still comes around looking for “Syub-hyung” or whatever it is he calls you.”
“His name is Jimin.”
“Yes,” Namjoon says wryly, “that’s right. Jimin. I thought I’d remember that with how often he ‘stays the night’ in your room.”
“At least I don’t invite people over all the time who eat other people’s good food without even having the decency to replace it,” Yoongi grumbles yet again, sour over the loss of his precious jajangmyeon.
There’s a little silence before Namjoon responds, a grin in his voice. “Hobi hyung is innocent, Your Honor, I swear.”
“Kim Namjoon!” Yoongi screeches in mock horror and in not-so-mock offense, head finally appearing again from behind the counter. “I called dibs on that!”
“Weed makes me hungry,” he whines in response. “Besides, you always eat my takeout.”
“And you always take my place on the couch,” the elder says, a slight pout in his voice while he pads back out of the kitchen, scavenged food forgotten, one hand on his hip, looking every bit ready to lecture and admonish his best friend on the roommate etiquette of dude, don't eat my food.
Namjoon is just giving him a lazy, coy look, melted into the couch in a way that all college guys seemed to have down to an art.
“You could sit in my lap,” he suggests, and Yoongi just rolls his eyes and pretends to gag a little.
“Ew, no, I know what you’ve been doing with who today, no thanks,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“As if you haven’t slept with Hoseok,” because seriously, Jung Hoseok is kind of the dorm bicycle, no strings attached. The only people he hadn’t slept with were the abstinent and the resilient, because Hoseok was harder to resist than a chocolate cake presented to a diabetic having a really, really bad day. The only downside was the fact that he smelled like he only showered about half the time he should, but that could be chalked up to hanging out with a dance major- they always smelled, period, no questions asked. It came with the package. Regretfully.
And Yoongi is decidedly silent, instead finding the intricacies of putting his suit jacket on the hook by the door much more interesting.
Namjoon gives him a knowing look, shaking his head with a little snicker. “Man, we are so inbred.”
“You say that like we’re related,” is Yoongi’s reply, before, “ew, no, never mind, let’s not, thanks, bye.” Just because their group was close enough that people occasionally thought they were actually brothers didn’t mean it was okay to start making jokes about it, ew.
Namjoon snorts out a sharp laugh, while Yoongi approaches his place on the couch, still wearing a sour expression while he starts to finger the knot in his tie. “I still don’t think being an accountant suits you at all, hyung,” Namjoon says, watching with a critical eye, while Yoongi rolls his eyes again, plopping down next to him.
“It’s a temporary job, until one of my gigs pick up,” Yoongi says offhandedly, scowling at his tie, unable to make it come undone right, distracted with his fingers fumbling around smooth fabric.
“The suit looks good, though,” and the elder immediately picks up the tone in the younger’s voice, looking up to give him a warning glare. “What?” Namjoon laughs, incredulous, and yeah, he was definitely high earlier. “I’m allowed to be honest with my best friend.”
“You smell like horse feet and weed,” Yoongi retorts, declining the numerous subtle offers that Namjoon continues to offer him, albeit with weakening resolve.
“I’ve smelled like worse and you haven’t complained this much,” Namjoon muses, lips quirked up in an amused smile, leaning in just slightly. He smells exactly as Yoongi described, but he’ll admit, he’s used to it from being friends with the man in question who left Namjoon in that state, so he’s not nearly as opposed to it as he claims. “Do you need some help with that?”
Namjoon’s hand finds it’s way onto Yoongi’s tie, and he examines the fabric, eyebrows up in contemplation and the wry expression of a man who knew just how to talk his way into just about anyone’s pants. It was remarkable, really, knowing that this was the same guy who-- two years and a number of unmentionably bad haircuts ago-- couldn’t talk to girls for the life of him. Now he was one of the more- promiscuous members of their little group, and Yoongi couldn’t say it actually upset him if he tried.
“Not really,” is the small lie that comes out of the elder’s mouth, smiling himself just slightly. “I think I can handle it, Superman.”
“Mhmm,” is Namjoon’s disbelieving response, before he draws Yoongi in slowly by his tie, promptly silencing any other complaints the elder had with his lips. “You keep telling yourself that.”