#-internet filter

“FUCK!” 

You were ripped from sleep (abruptly ending your dream about becoming the president and legalizing weed) by the sound of glass breaking. Your phone told you it was nearly 3 AM and the cold sheets on the side of the bed where your boyfriend was supposed to be told you the crashing and cursing were coming from him. 

There probably should have been a stronger sense of urgency in the way you climbed out of bed and tiptoed down the hall to the kitchen, but you were so fucking tired it was hard to think straight. The medication you took to help with your insomnia made waking up particularly difficult, especially in the middle of the night. 

Yoongi stood in the middle of the kitchen. His cheeks were bright pink, and half of his dark hair was pulled into a small ponytail, the rest of the strands falling against the tops of his shoulders. Small shards of glass were scattered around him on the floor. A bottle of Hennessy sat on the kitchen table, but you chose not to linger on that. 

“What the fuck are you doing, babe?” You rubbed your eyes with your fists and blinked hard in the artificial light assaulting your vision. 

Yoongi only scowled. 

You hated when he got like this. How were you supposed to help him if he didn’t tell you what he needed? 

With a sigh, you retreated to the hallway to get a broom and dustpan from the closet. It was difficult to sweep up the shards with Yoongi still standing in the same spot, but you did your best to get the larger pieces. 

Once the large shards were disposed of in the trashcan, you turned to the kitchen sink to grab a paper towel. Just a bit of water was needed to make the paper towel damp enough for your liking. Yoongi continued to stand, eyes trained on the wall, while you crouched at his feet. Slowly sweeping the damp paper towel across the floor collected the rest of the glass shards that were difficult for you to see, the tiny ones that were likely to cut into his feet. Yoongi always walked around barefoot, another thing you hated. Men’s feet were weird-looking. That was just a fact. 

Satisfied with your work, you threw away the paper towel and resumed your stance in front of your boyfriend with your arms crossed against your chest and your eyelids heavy. 

“Gonna tell me what’s wrong now?” 

It seemed the time it took for you to finish cleaning gave Yoongi the time he needed to calm down. His was was no longer twisted with frustration, though his new expression was just as sad. He was exhausted, but you already knew that. How could he not be? A decade of being run into the ground for the sake of his art and his fans and making the company filthy rich would exhaust even the strongest people. 

You definitely knew you wouldn’t be able to hang. Capitalism was a scam. 

“I don’t know what the fuck they want from me,” he said with gritted teeth. You thought he was going to explain himself further, but after a few moments of silence he held out his hand. 

With a sleepy smile, you pulled Yoongi against your chest and ignored the smell of alcohol that clouded your senses when he exhaled against your hair. He curled his arm around your waist and held the back of your head with his other hand. Everyone joked about Yoongi being small, but one hug from him was enough to prove that he was solid and sturdy and safe. 

“Who, baby?” 

“Everyone.” The softness of his whisper made your soul ache. “We go over the songs, they said it sounds too Agust D. I rewrite, rerecord, go over the songs so many fucking times. Suddenly it’s too SUGA, too BTS. They want something different than “D-2”, different than “That That” and “Girl Of My Dreams”, but then they say I’m straying too far from what fans are used to. What is the fucking album supposed to be, Y/N?” 

You nuzzled your face against his collarbone and waited, knowing he didn’t expect an answer. After half a heartbeat, he was continuing. 

“Is this an Agust D album or a SUGA album?” He squeezed you even tighter. 

“What kind of album do you want it to be?” 

It seemed like an obvious question, but Yoongi tilted his head down to look at you with wide eyes. 

Fuck, he was so cute. Was it wrong of you to think he was cute while he was trembling with anger and exhaustion? Eh, it was probably fine. You’d gotten super fucked up at the “Jack in the Box” party and Yoongi had to take care of you while you puked in the bathroom. He’d said you looked cute then. You threatened to throw up on him. 

“I want it to be a Yoongi album,” he said softly. 

“Then make a Yoongi album. Fuck everyone else!” You pressed a quick kiss against his neck and then hopped away from him before he could swat at you for purposefully trying to tickle him with your kisses. “Well, don’t fuck everyone else. Just fuck me.” 

Yoongi rolled his eyes, but his hands searched for you again. Grabbing your wrists, he pulled you back against his chest, crushing you so hard you could barely breathe. It was fine, though. He needed touches, skin-on-skin contact, a reminder that he wasn’t alone in all of this. 

“A Yoongi album…” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “I’ve spent too much time creating for other people.” 

You hummed in agreement, snaking your hands beneath his t-shirt to hold his lower back. 

“It’ll fucking kick ass, Yoong. Everything you produce kicks ass. You’re a genius.” 

Yoongi huffed at that, but the gummy grin gives him away. “I said that one time.” 

“One time was enough. It’s out in the universe now. Plus, Genius Lab?? Excuse me, it’s right there.” 

“Leave me alone,” he whined, pulling you even closer. He couldn’t let you go even if he tried.