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taetaesbaebaepsae · 5 years

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Bury My Love Part 4

Third Part Here

A/N: Don’t hate me this is planned to have around 7 parts, so there’s more to come! I have a plan I swear

Summary: It all falls apart, just like it was always mean to.

Warnings: Good God this hurts, like my chest hurts, the angst is killing me folks

Word Count: 1657

In the end, it was Jungkook who started the spiral, started Yoongi thinking about all the ways this could go wrong, all the ways you could get hurt, and he didn't even mean to.

You’d cooled off after that last spat, understood that things had to be kept secret, and Yoongi even worked out a code system with Jungkook.

If he asked for his Americano iced, with whipped cream, that meant he wanted Jungkook to ask you to get it so that he could see you. Often, Jungkook asked you to come along to “help” him get all the coffees, that way he could bring you back to the studio to drop them off.

At the end of the week, when Yoongi had drank three sickly sweet Americanos just to keep seeing glimpses of you, Jungkook sits down next to him, depositing his fourth Americano.

“She couldn’t make it this time. She got distracted by work.”

Yoongi nods, trying to shake the bitter disappointment he feels at the words. You’d spent every night this week together, and he told himself it was because they were leaving for tour soon, told himself it was so that he could spend as much time with you as he could before then, but he wonders if it’ll ever stop, this longing for you, this ache in his throat and chest every time he can’t see you because of work or the other members or any number or reasons.

It scares him, to want this much, to need this much, because what happens when he can’t see you for months? The thought makes his stomach hurt, and he’d told you as much the night before, can’t help spilling out everything he feels, dizzy on your smile, your touch.

“What happens when I go away?” He asks, voice soft against your throat, you reclined against his chest as he rested his shoulders against the headboard.

You’re wearing nothing but his t-shirt and he’s trailing a hand up the line of your thigh, keeps kissing your neck and shoulder, aching to leave bite marks and bruises, to leave a mark that he’d been there, that he’d loved you, that he’d come back.

“You’ll come back,” you murmur easily, half asleep, head lolling against his chest.

“Will you wait for me?” He hates the way that sounds, hates how anxious and desperate it sounds.

You hum in the back of your throat, voice sleepy and lilting, and it’s his favorite song, his favorite melody, the way his name sounds on your lips.

“I’ll always wait for you, Yoongi.”

You reassure him with talk about video calls, even teasing him about how you might wear his favorite lingerie, and he gets distracted by your smart mouth and the curves of your body and doesn't think of it again until the week's end, when Jungkook sits next to him, looking at him drink his too sweet coffee with an almost critical eye.

"You'll miss her when we go on tour, hyung." Jungkook says, and it isn't a question, isn't a tease, just a statement.

Yoongi almost chokes on his Americano because of the panic that hits him, suddenly, clawing at his insides.

Jungkook knows. Jungkook knows it isn't just sex, knows Yoongi is in over his head, knows he's thinking of the future and how to make things work, and if Jungkook knows, then he's too obvious.

He's been so fucking obvious, now that he thinks about it, he's been a heartsick pathetic idiot, watching your every move, excusing himself the second he knows you're off work, and following you home like a lost stray puppy.

There are any number of interns and workers in the building who would sell your name, want their fifteen minutes of fame and reveal your relationship with an idol, and then...

Yoongi bolts upright, needing to move, needing to run, needing to do anything rather than sit there, too still with his heart beating out of his chest, mind racing.

It doesn't help, he walks home despite his manager bitching that he should take a car, shouldn't be out in the streets but he's wearing his mask and he just can't sit still right now, can't stop thinking of all the awful things people will call you.

Golddigger. Groupie. Whore.

He can't stop imagining your face, eyes welled up with tears, how you would lose sleep, lose weight, be anxious and stressed and on edge.

There's this constant need in him to protect you, to fucking fix this, but how?

By the time he's home the panic has receded and he knows exactly how to fix it, knows exactly how to keep you safe but his brain stutters every time he thinks about it, because it seems so big, so awful, and he keeps skating around it in his head because honest to God, he doesn't know if he'll survive it.

He waits until it's almost midnight to listen to the voicemail you'd left.

"Hi, babe, I was hoping you left early so that I could come see you? I missed you today, work was so....ugh." He imagines how you'd looked, huffing out a breath, making that face you made when you were annoyed and it makes him smile. “Anyway, let me know when I can come over. I missed you today. I love you.”

He nearly drops the phone at your words, and it isn’t the first time you’ve said them, you’d murmured it all over his body, speaking it into his skin, but knowing what he knows now, knowing what he has to do, the words are like lead in his stomach, the way you almost sing it, the way it feels so fucking real, like you mean it, you say it like you fucking mean it, and no one’s ever loved him like that.

He’s never loved anyone like he loves you, like he can’t breathe properly until you’re in his arms, and suddenly he’s angry at himself, angry because he knew how this would end, knew how this would go, and before he knows it he’s flipping over the coffee table and sending papers flying everywhere, all those stupid fucking lyrics about love and how it lasts and how it’s good.

In the end, he can’t do it, he can’t pick up the phone and call you, and he wants so badly to demolish his liquor cabinet but he can’t do that either because he knows where that leads, knows that leads to him explaining everything, hoping you’ll talk him out of it, hoping you’ll know a solution he doesn’t, hoping you’ll just come over and be all huffy, use that smart mouth “Yoongi, stop being a fucking idiot. We’ll work through this.”

In the end, you call first, and he’s just been lying on the couch, eyes closed, trying to think of a way out of this, of any of this, and he’s so used to his heart flipping over when he sees your name on his phone that it’s odd to feel the opposite, the dread of hearing your voice.

He takes a deep breath before he answers, thinks this is better, anyway, because if he had to see you, had to see your face....

He can’t even think about it without tears clogging his throat, so he takes in another breath and picks up.

"Yeah?”

“Hey, babe! I was calling to see if you wanted me to bring some food over, I-”

You sound so bright and happy and he squeezes his eyes shut against how awful it feels to know he’s about to ruin that, about to ruin you.

He cuts you off. “Don’t come over.”

You stutter a bit. “N-no? Why not? Is everything okay?”

No, no it’s not, everything’s awful because you’re not here and I have to end this and I don’t fucking want to, I want you in my arms right now, come over, come over quick and quiet this monster in my head, he thinks.

“Everything’s fine. I just thought you knew that since I’m going on tour next week, this is done.”

“This is...this is what?”

Your voice sounds so small, he can almost see you, bottom lip trembling, and he has to hurry up, has to finish this because he needs the sting of alcohol on his lips, needs something, anything to fill this aching void in his chest and stomach, has to finish this because he needs to let the tears burning at the backs of his eyes fall.

“Come on, Y/n. You think this is the first time I’ve done this? You think you’re the first girl to warm my bed before a big tour?” The words feel like acid in his mouth, and he hates himself so viscerally he feels suddenly nauseous.

“Yoongi...you don’t...you can’t...”

He hears the shake in your voice and for a second he thinks about taking it all back, thinks about letting himself burst into tears and tell you how sorry he is, begging you to come over, but he can’t. He can’t because this is about you, this is about keeping your light bright, not letting all of the world try and douse it.

“Christ, listen to you. Are you going to cry? Because I don’t have time for that. See you around.”

He hangs up, throws the phone on the floor, doesn’t even want to look at it until he’s had a drink or five.

Hours later, he ends up curled up on the couch because his sheets still smell like you from the night before, exhausted from crying because he can’t get drunk enough to forget even though God knows he’s trying.

Yoongi presses the phone tight to his ear, replaying over and over. “I missed you today. I love you,” and lets your singsong voice lull him to sleep, hoping maybe he can live in dreams where you’re happy and bright and still with him.

#bts reactions #bts imagine #bts imagines #suga imagine #min yoongi x reader #yoongi imagine #suga x reader #min yoongi

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