Min Yoongi's muse is his music and his music is his one and only lover. He wasn't counting on you to walk into his life and turn his world upside down, making it more complicated than it already was.
~
Idol Yoongi x Reader Insert (no y/n)
Based on m...
"When were you going to tell me?" you spat angrily not being deterred by his intense glare. He was about to answer and you continued. "You were going to make profit off my feelings, weren't you?" you looked at him with disgust.
"I don't care who you are, you have no right!" he opened his mouth but you didn't let him interrupt you "just the whole band and your millions of followers were going to see this, right? That's nobody else" you growled enraged. Yoongi's blood was starting to boil as you didn't let him explain himself and you kept spewing venom.
"Shy, my ass! How can you live with yourself being a fucking liar?" you yelled. He had enough of trying to say something and was done with your bullshit assumptions. As he stormed off he opened the front pocket of his bag and flung the CD onto the table. It slid right next to the coffee he'd got for you.
"That's yours" he growled and shot you one last angry glare before walking out livid.
Yoongi felt so stupid, for everything. His thoughts, his feelings, not having mentioned the band before, for giving you the time of the day, trusting you, helping you, seeing those files, having even talked to you in the first place. "Arrgh" he yelled frustrated and kicked a post, his fists in a tight ball and nails buried in his palms.
He slammed the door of his studio and let himself fall on his chair. He rubbed his forehead as he took deep breaths trying to calm himself down. Why had he wasted so much time on this? He had an album to work on. Why were those goddamn poems so inspirational? He wished he could wipe them off his memory. What a waste that would be. Just when I needed more problems and stress, perfect, he thought sarcastically.
Yoongi fully focused on his work not to think about anything else, the band steered clear of him as his mood was rotten and his attitude was sharp. The night before seemed to be a joke next to this, they were so confused. He basically went to bed just fine and woke up like this. The morning hadn't even started.
He rubbed his neck absentmindedly, he couldn't believe he had whiplash from your strike. What on Earth did you do at the gym to have that much strength in your seemingly weak arms, he asked himself in confusion. He caught himself thinking about the morning again and sighed audibly.
He was mad and he didn't want to explain himself, but he felt the need to because he cared. Because he had feelings, he cursed at his unwelcome emotions. He didn't know you from having seen you once a week for maybe two months, he wasn't even paying attention to the time. And you clearly didn't know him, he scoffed at no one, you were quick to judge him.
He was not a jerk, he never lied to you about who he was or what he did. He wasn't going to use your poems for the band or show anyone. He respected your work. Yes, the band has seven members, but why would he have to share everything with them? He was more than Suga from BTS.
If he had just told you from the beginning, this wouldn't have happened. Maybe you wouldn't have shared the poems with him if that were the case. That would have been less problematic, he thought and beat himself up about it.
What was he supposed to do? 'Hey, this is my coffee order, by the way, I'm part of one of the biggest boy bands in South Korea, nice to meet you' that would have made him sound like an insufferable asshole who is full of himself.
Why did you have to assume the worst? He was angry at you and angry at himself too. To feel anything towards you, even if it was anger, he had to care. He didn't care about the haters, so he didn't necessarily get angry or hurt over them. Was he hurt by you? His thought process followed and he didn't know the answer.
Maybe he was, the logical answer wasn't there, but the emotional one was pretty loud and, he didn't dare say, clear. 'What an idiot you are, Yoongi' he thought. He turned back to his ignored work and tried to regain focus for the umpteenth time with an irritated frown on his face.
You had casually seen the magazine at a newspaper kiosk on your way to the café, so your feelings were raw and your reaction had been uncensored. You felt stupid not having noticed before, you were talking to some idol all along. But again, the shy guy didn't look like a model and you thought he was one. He most certainly didn't look like an idol either.
You had a hard time picturing him on stage and not dying from being stared at by a whole crowd. You looked the band up during your lunch break and found his stage name, Suga, a rapper? The shy guy, an idol and on top of that he wasn't just a plain singer. He was a rapper who needed to have a certain attitude to perform.
How two faced can this guy be? You wondered in dismay. He hadn't known about your poems though, why would he approach you in the first place. He had helped you when you spilled coffee all over your laptop and listened to you before he even had a reason to, even tried to silently comfort you when you cried.
You didn't understand him. As far as you could tell, he hadn't talked to you with any sort of motivation. He didn't even seem interested and he reluctantly answered, if he said anything at all, when you talked. You insisted because he seemed nice and you figured he was just timid.
Even if it didn't seem like it, you were not as confident either. You tried to be open and friendly, but you struggled to interact with others. Keeping up a positive attitude and having a welcoming demeanor hopefully made it less awkward for you and everyone else.
Only with your luck you could have shared your poems with a random stranger who turned out to be an idol that had the power to broadcast them. Your heart sank and you panicked when this thought crossed your head for the first time.
No one would know whose feelings and thoughts those were, but they were yours and it enraged you that someone was taking advantage of you. Using your writing was using you, your essence, who you are.
You arrived home and took out the CD he had thrown at you before he left. You remembered the coffee he had got for you, your usual order. That also threw you off, why would he buy coffee like he owed you something? If you hadn't found out a few minutes earlier, would that work as one more way to pretend everything was okay and he wasn't doing anything?
It just sounded too far-fetched, he could probably buy the entire coffee shop and you had paid for his drinks for a week. What a joke you were to him. He didn't seem pleased about it though. The contradiction of it all was driving you crazy.
You put the CD in your stereo and laid down on your bed to see what this was about.
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