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English
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Published:
2025-04-24
Updated:
2025-07-15
Words:
197,325
Chapters:
23/?
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He Has Your Eyes

Summary:

❛❛ He writes lyrics that shake the world…but one small voice might just rewrite his heart.❞

-

 

Min Yoongi doesn’t do feelings. He does platinum records, packed arenas, and late-night studio sessions—alone. emotions are just distractions he avoids like bad auto-tune.

But when a child who looks 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 knocks on his door, suitcase in hand, a plushie in another and says,
“I’m here to see you… because you’re my appa.”

 

Now Yoongi’s got a beat he can’t control—and it calls him 'appa'.

Chapter 1: prologue

Summary:

𝘏𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘮

Chapter Text

 

 

 

There wasn't a single soul in South Korea, maybe even the world, who hadn’t heard the name Min Yoongi. Or, as the music industry knew him: SUGA.

 

The genius. The legend.

 

A name that echoes in every studio, every streaming chart, every award show stage. The producer of the decade. The voice behind the most gut-wrenching lyrics and the beat that has launched a thousand careers.

 

His songs are inescapable, even if you aren’t a fan. His hooks get stuck in your head like a curse, his beats pound in your chest like a second heartbeat. 

 

They call him “The Hand of Midas” because if Min Yoongi touched your song, it was a hit before it even dropped.

 

People don’t just respect him. They study him. Emulate him. And most of all, they stay the hell out of his way.

 

He’s not just a producer. He’s the phenomenon.

 

He composes, produces, raps, writes, spits verses that sting like truth, every beat purposeful. A true one-man powerhouse.

 

His lyrics are fire and fury, love and war, wrapped in gritted teeth and carefully crafted pain. His songs aren't just songs, they're statements. Loud, raw, unapologetic.

 

He doesn’t hide behind metaphors. He doesn’t pretty things up. His music is laced with fury against the hypocrisy of the industry, nepotism, capitalism, discrimination, corruption. He calls out the system like he isn’t a part of it. That’s why they feared him. That’s why they respected him.

 

Min Yoongi didn’t do fake smiles. He didn’t sweet-talk reporters. He didn’t entertain ass-kissing rookies who wanted a piece of his fame.

 

He chews up scandals and spits them out into platinum records.

 

There’s a reason no one messes with Min Yoongi.

 

He’s sharp-tongued. Intimidating. He speaks only when he has something to say, and when he speaks, the room shuts up. No one can tell if he’s being respectful or seconds from telling you to fuck off, and honestly, no one wants to find out.

 

He’s a dominant alpha, and the kind who doesn’t use his scent or his presence to prove it. His aura alone does the work. 

 

He doesn’t do social dinners. He doesn't do polite fake laughs on variety shows. He doesn’t play the game the industry tries to trap people in.

 

Because Yoongi doesn’t need the industry. The industry needs him.

 

He keeps to himself. He’s got exactly two people in his circle: Jung Hoseok, his loud-mouthed golden retriever of a friend, and Kim Namjoon, the only other person alive who can go toe to toe with him intellectually.

 

Everyone else? Accessories. Background noise. He doesn’t have time for them. Hell, he barely had time to breathe between projects.

 

But when the pressure builds in his skull like a migraine that won't quit, when the music gets too loud even for him, when his headphones start feeling like a noose and deadlines scream through his skull, Yoongi gives himself one rule:

 

One night to forget. To relax. 

 

He throws on his mask and bucket hat, leaves the studio lights behind, and disappears into the dim, pulsing world of Seoul’s nightclubs. 

 

Always following the same pattern. He sits at the bar, nurses a drink he never finishes, lets the bass thud through his bones until someone bold enough comes up to him.

 

He never approached first.

 

He didn’t need to.

 

People came to him—drawn by the aura, the mystery, the quiet arrogance that said he doesn’t give a fuck who you are. 

 

If you are hot enough, bold enough, and don’t try to kiss him, maybe you’ll get lucky for the night.

 

Min Yoongi doesn’t kiss.

 

He doesn’t cuddle. He doesn’t stay. No names, no numbers.

 

If they ask for more, he walks away. If they want something emotional, something permanent, he shuts it down with a look colder than his words.

 

Because Yoongi has no time for feelings. He barely has time for himself.

 

He lived for his music only. There was no room in his life for anyone else.

 

And that’s how he likes it.

 

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

It took months of relentless performances, award shows, interviews, talk shows, radio segments, and overseas schedules to finally wrap up the promotion cycle for his latest album.

 

Exhausting? Yes.

Worth it? Absolutely.

 

Yoongi was drained to the bone, but there was a quiet, grim satisfaction in that exhaustion. He had poured his soul into the album—every verse, every beat—and sharing it with the world was what made the fatigue bearable.

 

He talked about his creative process in interviews with a sharp kind of pride, dissecting rhythms and metaphors like they were instruments on an operating table. But the second anyone tried to peel back the curtain of his personal life?

 

They were shut down with a glare cold enough to stop a broadcast mid-air.

 

Because Min Yoongi and soft didn’t belong in the same damn sentence.

 

The night of the final show ended like it always did: with a few quiet drinks shared with Namjoon and Hoseok—the only two people who could sit beside Yoongi and not require him to be anything other than himself.

 

No big parties. No champagne-fueled fake toasts. No fake smiles for the cameras. Just the three of them, heads bowed over half-empty glasses, still talking about music. Always music. Because Yoongi didn’t talk about anything else.

 

And even after weeks spent living in the studio, when he finally stumbled into his penthouse, he didn’t feel like he was back home.

 

Truth was, he hadn’t called this place home in a long time.

 

The studio was his home. The blinking lights, the hum of the soundboard, the echo of a freshly dropped beat—that’s where he belonged.

 

But Namjoon and Hoseok had insisted. Practically shoved him into a cab with a duffel bag and told him to sleep in a proper bed for one night before diving into his next project.

 

Because they knew him. Knew that if left to his own devices, Yoongi would start producing again the next morning. Not because anyone asked him to—but because he didn’t know how to stop.

 

He didn’t believe in peace.

 

Peace meant silence.

Silence meant stillness.

And stillness meant you were either dead or creatively bankrupt.

 

And Min Yoongi didn’t have time for either.

 

The moment he got home, he tossed his jacket over the arm of the couch, peeled off his shirt, and dragged himself to the bedroom. The sheets were cold. Of course they were. The room felt like a hotel more than a home, stale, impersonal and too clean.

 

Sleep didn’t come easily.

 

His fingers kept twitching for a pencil, for his phone, for something to sketch out the melody stuck in his head. He scribbled half a hook into his notebook, recorded a whisper of harmony on a voice memo, and stared at the ceiling like it owed him answers.

 

Eventually, exhaustion won. And his eyes slipped shut somewhere around 4AM.

 

 

 

 

 

But then the knock came early.

 

Maybe not early for others, but early for someone who had fallen asleep just a couple of hours ago.

 

He didn’t hear the first knock. Too deep in the kind of sleep that only comes when you haven’t had any in days.

 

But the second?

 

The third?

 

Knock. Knock. Knock.

 

He finally stirred with a groan, dragging a hand across his face. His head throbbed, not from drinking, but from the burnout and lack of sleep. 

 

Who the hell was knocking on Min Yoongi’s door this early?

Hoseok would’ve texted.

Namjoon would’ve called.

His manager? Too afraid of him to try something this stupid.

 

He sat up slowly, joints aching like a man twice his age, bare feet hit the cold floor as he shuffled toward the door. His brain was still fogged over with sleep and the residue of half-finished melodies. The only thing he was certain of was that whoever was behind that door was going to regret it.

 

He yanked the door open, half-ready to rip someone’s head off.

 

And froze.

 

Because standing there, in the hallway of his high-security penthouse, was a little boy.

 

Maybe five. Six at most.

 

Tiny. Serious. Ridiculously calm.

 

A hoodie far too big for his body, sleeves swallowing his hands. A little dinosaur backpack strapped tight over his shoulders. Another space theme suitcase beside him, one that looked nearly the same size as him. And in one hand? A star shaped plushie that he hugged dear to his chest. 

 

Yoongi blinked.

The kid blinked right back.

 

He was just standing there like he belonged. Like it wasn’t 8 in the morning and he hadn’t just knocked on a literal superstar’s front door.

 

“…You lost?” Yoongi asked, voice thick from sleep. He craned his neck, eyes scanning the hallway, expecting to see a frantic parent or even a hidden camera crew who're trying to film a prank on him. 

 

The kid shook his head, lips pressed into a line. “No.”

 

Yoongi ran a slow hand down his face. “Okay… so where are your parents?”

 

The child didn’t hesitate.

“I’m here to see you.”

 

“…What?” Yoongi deadpanned. The child was too young to be a sasaeng, surely.

 

The kid shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Because you’re my Appa.”

 

Yoongi stared at the child. His first thought was to laugh.

 

But something made him pause. There was something unsettlingly familiar about the kid.

Pale skin. That sharp jaw. Thick dark lashes. The mischievous glint. The way his little lips curled in the same way Yoongi’s did when he was about to say something blunt to an interviewer. The little wrinkle in the brow that could slice through granite. 

 

And those eyes—those eyes were unmistakably HIS. 

 

The kid stared back without blinking, hugging his star plushie like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb on Min Yoongi’s entire life.

 

“…What the fu—”