Summary: You were nine when the world ended for you. You were twenty-five when you met him. You were twenty-six when life ended and began again, whether you wanted it to or not.
Warnings: Yandere (as always), mention of death, illness, angst (lots of it)
A/N: This story went through so much. I wrote the initial on my notebook while I was waiting for my friend, then transferred to ipad, then finally to google docs. I was supposed to post this here last April but life, as it always does, get in the way of our plans... hehe..huhu.. anyway, please do interact and I hope you enjoy this!
The world ended when you were nine.
You couldn’t remember exactly how it happened, your young mind couldn't even fathom why it happened - just that it did.
Was it gradual, you wondered. Was it something unforeseen by the government? Were there signs? Were they just too strong to fight against?
What you remembered was that one day, your country was free and peaceful, and the next thing you knew, you were a foreigner to your own homeland. All of a sudden, you were a second-class citizen to your own home.
Sutena.
They came for Sutena, a plant that only grew in your country. Hard as they tried to replicate the plant, hard as they tried to copy the condition it grew and thrive on, they simply failed.
The seven leaders failed.
And when the president of your country stopped allowing them to plunder the Sutena to the ground, that was when they dropped the act. Suddenly, the seven leaders were no longer noble. The seven leaders were no longer patient nor kind. When they stopped getting what they wanted in the name of science, that was when they attacked.
You were nine when the seven leaders invaded your country. They never really left.
Now that they have an unending access to your country’s treasure, their goal was finally realized,
What was once only a concept trend into a twisted reality of some sorts for some, and a nightmare for you and your countrymen. Essentially, it was a fountain of youth packaged into a single pill that would cost one hundreds of millions. You would live forever, all your sickness, all the pains, all the aging would stop when you take it.
But the seven men were too cunning, too greedy. They weren’t only obsessed with living forever, no. They were all obsessed with money and the power it brought them. After all, they needed resources to survive the numerous attempts on their lives. They needed the money to live the life they badly wanted to prolong.
In fact, no one knew how old the seven men really were.
You were twenty-five when you met him.
By now, the world you grew up in was now just a distant memory, something that happened long ago that you would think all of it was just a good dream.
The people you knew were no more.
Now, you only had your aunt and cousin.
At certain point, your people stopped fighting, too weary from all the ruins and casualties that war brought. Your people knew they were never going to win.
At one point, the people accepted loss.
They said you weren’t their slaves, that your people were free so as long as they have unrestricted access to Sutena. But conditional freedom was still a cage. What once was a progressive, quiet country turned into grey.
You were on your way home, weary from the long day. You had taken this road so many times to know that people - well, at least your people - did not really go here. This was too near where the Sutana grew. But this was your home. This was the only connection left of your roots, of the family who had long gone.
Your days were so monotonous that you wondered why you were still alive. You had no family left, all of them were tragically taken by sickness or old age. You had no intention to start your own simply because you wouldn’t subject your own child to a fucked-up world. Your line ends with you, you thought.
You weren’t exactly suicidal. You had this almost clinical approach to death, it was something that would eventually happen. It was the cycle of life, the theme, if you will.
You weren’t suicidal, but the person looking down the bridge with his legs carelessly swinging back and forth as though wind wouldn’t dare to push him down the bridge looked like he was. You couldn’t see his face, his dark hair was blocking his face. But if you were forced to live this life, then he should be, too.
Nope. No optional exit here, buddy. No taking shortcuts.
You moved without thinking. Truly, you did.
Because instead of pulling the man to safety, you accidentally pushed him when you tripped from a rock.
Your mouth dropped open, the sound of your own frantic heartbeat suddenly louder than the rushing wind. For a split second, the world turned into a silent film—a frame-by-frame capture of your outstretched hands, the empty space where a human being had just been, and the sickeningly graceful arc of a body descending toward the dark water below.
Panic, cold and sharp, jolted through your limbs. You hadn't meant to be a savior, but you certainly hadn't planned on being an executioner. You scrambled to the edge, your fingers scraping against the cold metal of the railing, and peered over.
"Oh, god," you rasped, the words catching in a throat gone bone-dry. "Oh, no, no, no."
Below, there was a splash—violent and white against the murky depths—and then, silence. The monotony of your existence hadn't just been broken; it had been shattered by the weight of a life that was now, quite literally, in your hands. You had spent years waiting for death to arrive like a scheduled train, yet seeing it invited so abruptly by your own clumsy feet made your stomach heave.
Without thinking, you jumped.
You braced for impact as water surrounded you. The impact was less of a splash and more of a physical assault. The water was a wall of liquid ice that slammed the breath right out of your lungs, turning your sudden heroism into a frantic, gasping struggle for survival.
For a several disorienting seconds, up was down and down was dark. Bubbles danced mockingly past your eyes as you fought the weight of your water-logged clothes. Then, through the murky haze, you saw him—a dark shape suspended in the current, sinking with a stillness that terrified you. And you were sinking with him because as fate would have it, you never really learned to swim.
Maybe you were a bit suicidal?
But despite the rising panic you were feeling, you reached out your hand to the man with pale skin, only to find his dark eyes already trained to yours as he sinked to the bottom. He didn't reach for the surface. He didn't even reach for your hand. He simply watched you, his expression so eerily calm, as though he had been waiting for this specific moment of descent for a lifetime. From his point of view, you were nothing short of an angel with the rays of light behind you, your hair floating ethereally around you. He smiled at you, his expression so eerily calm as though he was someone who had all the time in the world.
And you were quickly running out of breath.
With the very last of you, you pulled the sleeves of his to no avail. Your body was giving up, your lungs protesting violently. Your grip slackened. Your eyes began to flutter shut, the weight of the river finally winning.
In that twilight between consciousness and the deep, you saw him blink.
And as though this was a clear imposition, even a rude distraction from his quiet descent down the lake, he surged into motion. You never expected a strength such as his just from looking at his form but the crushing pressure when he encircled your wrist and pulled you to his chest said otherwise. He kicked against the current until you were out of the water. He dragged you to the embankment and unceremoniously dropped you on the grass before sitting down beside you, his long legs stretched, his arms supporting his weight.
“Are you always this indecisive?” he asked. His voice was steady, lacking even a hint of the breathlessness that was currently tearing through your lungs.
“W-what?” you wheezed as you coughed out the water, your heart beating even faster as the adrenaline left your body.
“You couldn’t decide whether to kill me or save me? I mean. Come on. Make up your mind,” he said, his voice that of a boredom.
“I—I wasn’t trying to kill you!” You choked out the words, shivering so hard your teeth clacked. “You were trying to kill yoursel—”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“You were sitting! On a bridge! An extremely high bridge! At night-”
“So you decided to assist me in “killing” myself?” he regarded you as he tilted his head. “I must say, you’re efficient. Indecisive, but efficient.”
“I tripped!”
He shook his head in disbelief, a slow, mocking movement that sent droplets of river water flying from his dark hair. “You pushed me, and then you jumped after me. Evidently, you don’t know how to swim. You cannot even dog paddle. It’s embarrassing. I think you’re projecting and you’re the suicidal one.”
You rolled your eyes as you attempted to stand, muttering under your breath about how this was one of the worst days of your life. “So much about being a good samaritan,” you noted lowly.
“That’s you trying to be a good samaritan?” he asked, watching your struggle with a look of genuine fascination. “I’ve had more peaceful encounters with people who actively hate me.”
Your knees were shaking as you finally gained your footing, but your pride had taken a hit enough to just want to leave this place even though your body was not yet ready. You took one defiant step, swayed dangerously, and would have hit the mud face-first if a hand hadn't shot out to steady you.
The grip on your arm was firm, grounding, and annoyingly solid.
“This is what a good samaritan is supposed to look like, by the way,” he muttered. He didn't let go, instead stepping closer so you could lean against him—a move that felt entirely too intimate for two people who had just met via a homicide attempt.
“You’re still shivering,” he observed, his voice dropping the snark for a second. “And you’re turning a very concerning shade of blue. It clashes with your hair.”
You scoffed weakly. “Excuse me. Blue is my color,” you rebutted, your teeth chattering so loudly. “I-I’ll walk this off. Builds character and everything, you know?”
“The walk home will build pneumonia,” he corrected. “Where do you live?”
“I’m not giving my address to a stranger I just tried to murder,” you managed to gasp out, trying to summon an ounce of your usual clinical detachment. It was difficult to be mysterious when you were dripping like a broken faucet. “That’s how horror movies start. I’ve seen the tropes.”
“Believe me, if I wanted to murder you, I would have just let you continue your impersonation of an anchor back there,” he noted.
The walk was entertaining. You meant, you were actively fighting for your life as he actively tried to keep you alive and standing on your feet. It must have been such an imposition to him because he sighed so hard and so deep before hauling you on his back.
“Where are your keys?” he asked once you two made it in front of your little cottage.
“Clearly swimming,” you muttered into his shoulder, your voice vibrating with a fresh wave of shivers. “Along with my phone, my wallet, and my last shred of dignity. They’ve formed a new society at the bottom of the river. I hope they’re happy together.”
The man stood there, still supporting your weight as if you were a particularly heavy, dripping sack of laundry. He stared at your front door—a charming, locked, and currently impenetrable barrier—with a look of profound, weary disappointment.
“Excuse me for a moment,” he sighed as he sat you down on your porch. “I’ll fix this later-”
“Fix what-”
Before you knew it, he slammed his shoulder once against your poor excuse of a door. It gave away. Pathetically. It didn't even put up a fight. It just surrendered, swinging on one surviving hinge like a white flag.
He turned slowly to you accusingly before quietly pointing to the door in disbelief. “Honey, the homeless have more security than you. A particularly motivated squirrel could have staged a home invasion here.”
You opened your mouth to defend yourself when he put up a finger before looking up as though he was silently negotiating with a higher power for the strength not to walk right back into the river. “You know what? No. Don’t even-”
A hot shower and a hot cup of tea later, you were watching as he fixed your door with a heavy-duty screwdriver and a hammer he’d found in your kitchen junk drawer with the precision of a surgeon.
He stood up, testing the door. It swung shut with a solid, satisfying thunk that it hadn't made in the three years you'd lived there. He turned the deadbolt, nodding to himself.
“There. Now at least someone will have to try slightly harder to murder you than I did,” he said, leaning against the now-sturdy frame. He crossed his arms, his dark eyes landing on you with that same unsettling, clinical intensity. “I’m done here. Bye. Let’s never meet again.”
“Agreed.”
—
You chalked what happened a month ago to a particularly bad nightmare. Aside from the fixed door that no longer rattled in the wind and a lingering sniffle that lasted a week, there was no evidence that whatever happened that night, happened.
You were walking home after work, swinging the small bag of groceries when you saw a man being held against the wall, a gun pointed at him. It was a mugging from how he was searching his pockets. You didn't think. Again. Truly, you didn't. Without a second's hesitation, you wound up like a big-league pitcher and swung your bag of groceries with every ounce of momentum you possessed.
The mugger, possessing the survival instincts you clearly lacked, chose that exact millisecond to crouch down to check the victim's ankles for a hidden wallet.
Your bag of groceries sailed through the empty air where his head had been and connected—with a sickening, wet thud—directly with the face of the man being mugged.
"Oomph!" the victim grunted.
The mugger, having survived a point-blank grocery assault by the grace of a well-timed squat, stared at the scene for one bewildered second. He looked at his victim—who was currently draped in egg yolk and looking ready to commit a felony of his own—and then at you, the wild-eyed woman wielding a leaking bag of dairy.
Faced with a situation that was clearly too weird to be profitable, the mugger tucked his gun into his waistband, turned on his heel, and sprinted down the alley without a word.
The pale man winced, his hand feeling the side of his head. He looked at his finger, certain that blood would be there and what did you know, there was. He sighed as he flinched before looking at you.
“Of course it’s you again,” he muttered under his breath. “Do I need to hire bodyguards?” he asked himself as he straightened up.
You touched his forearms, looking up at him with concern. “Oh my God. You’re bleeding-”
“Please don’t touch me. I’m terrified of you,” he said, his voice dripping with a sarcasm so dry it could have started a brushfire.
“I was trying to save you!”
“You hit me. With what seemed to be a bag with heavy-duty cans.”
“He was robbing you-”
He snorted. “He was actually quite polite. Seriously. He hadn't even raised his voice yet. We were in the middle of a very civilized transaction until you decided to launch a pantry at my skull. I think I was safer with him.”
“Can you be serious for once? We need to get you to a hospital-”
“Can you stop trying to kill me for once?” he replied dryly. He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket, which was immediately ruined as he dabbed at the blood blooming near his eyebrow. "A hospital? For what? To explain to a triage nurse that I was assaulted yet again by the same person? That I was beaten by groceries? No, thanks.”
“He had a gun! If you look at it, I saved your life.”
He tilted his head in realization, “You are suicidal. I knew it. The guy had a gun! And you ran unarmed-”
“I have my groceries with me..” you reasoned weakly, looking anywhere but his bewildered eyes.
He scoffed, “You’re unbelievable.”
“Thanks?”
He shook his head before immediately wincing, his hand flying up to cradle his skull. “Not a compliment, honey.”
You moved to his side, hovering your hands near his elbows, afraid to touch him but terrified he’d tip over. “I’m sorry. I really am. But you were just standing there! You weren’t even fighting back!”
“Is this my karma?; he asked himself, seriously contemplating how he had been living his life as he attempted to walk away from you unsuccessfully as evidenced by the swaying in his steps.
"Whoa, okay, easy—" you gasped, finally abandoning the 'no touching' rule and grabbing his arm to keep him upright.
He leaned into your support for a fraction of a second before stiffening, though he didn't pull away. "I’m being haunted," he muttered dramatically, closing his eyes against the pulsing rhythm in his temple. "I didn't drown in the lake, so the universe sent you back to finish the job. It's a very specific, very humiliating curse."
"It's not a curse, it's a concussion!" you countered, tucking your shoulder under his arm to act as a crutch. "And for the record, I saved you from a mugging. Most people would say 'thank you' instead of 'you're a localized natural disaster.'"
"Most people aren't hit in the face with groceries," he bit out, though his voice lacked its usual bite as he let you lead him toward the alley exit. He looked down at you, his dark eyes clouded with pain and a burgeoning, reluctant recognition. "Where are we going? Please tell me it’s not back to the house with the suicidal door. I don't think I have the strength to fix your infrastructure tonight."
—
“Stop singing, for the love of God, please,” he pleaded.
“I’m just trying to wake you up. Google said sleeping is bad for concussions-”
“I’m not going to die. Stop it.”
He lay stretched out on your sofa, a bag of frozen peas (the only non-weaponized grocery item left) pressed against his temple. His dark hair was fanned out against the cushion, making his skin look even more like porcelain—too smooth, too pale, too perfect for a man who lived in a country that had been grey for sixteen years.
“How are you so sure?” you asked again, peering at him as you set a fresh cup of tea on the coffee table. “You don’t look rich enough to afford Sutena.”
“Ouch,” he remarked dryly before sitting up lazily. “Sutena,” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like a secret. “You think that little pill is the only way to stick around? That the Seven are the only ones who found the fountain?”
“It’s the only way anyone survives the sickness these days,” you countered, sitting on the edge of the armchair. “Unless you’re one of the Seven. And you’re definitely not one of them. They don't hang out on bridges at midnight or get mugged in alleys.”
He nodded. “They definitely shouldn’t, right? What were you going to cook, anyway?”
You blinked, thrown by the jarring pivot from political elites to meal prep. “I was going to cook kimchi spam rice or something. Kimchi didn’t survive the mugging. So I’m going to cook ramen. Why?”
“That’s not healthy,” he chided. “The sodium alone is a slow-motion catastrophe. It’s bad for the heart, the skin, the temperament...”
“So?”
“So? Don’t you want to live a long life?”
“Not particularly. I believe one dies when they’re supposed to die.”
He held your eyes for a moment too long before he chuckled, “They should, shouldn’t day?” He whispered before standing up and going straight to your kitchen. “In that case, let’s cook your ramen. I’m famished.”
“Wait—you’re the one who was just lecturing me on my heart, kidney, overall health,” you said, scrambling to follow him into the kitchen.
“That was before I realized I was dining with a fellow nihilist,” he said, already poking through your cupboards with an air of immense authority. He plucked a stray egg that had survived the massacre and held it up like a trophy. “If we’re going to meet the Reaper, we might as well do it with a poached egg and a bit of dignity.”
He turned to you, the flickering kitchen light catching the dark, depthless quality of his eyes. For a man who had just been mugged and nearly drowned, he looked remarkably like he owned the place.
“Water,” he commanded gently, pointing to the stove. “And try not to trip on the way to the burner. I’ve reached my quota for near-death experiences for the hour.”
—-
“I think we’ve already trauma bonded,” he said as he fixed your leaking faucet.
“Why? Because I already attempted to kill you twice?” you asked, leaning against the counter and watching him with a mixture of suspicion and reluctant gratitude.
He smirked, his focus shifting back to the pipe for one final adjustment. “So you admit that you were trying to kill me. Hello, 911? Yes, I’d like to report a crime-”
You chuckled, the sound light but tinged with the exhaustion of the night. “But you’re still alive. It still wasn't your time. And how can we trauma bond when I don’t even know your name?”
He blinked, setting the wrench down with a heavy clank and turned to look at you, his sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that were far too steady for someone who had recently been used as target practice for canned goods. “I’m Y- I’m Suga.”
“Hi Suga, I’m Y/N. It’s nice to finally meet you.”
“‘Nice’ is a bold choice of words, Y/N,” Suga remarked, leaning back against the counter and drying his hands on a towel. The sharp, clinical intensity in his eyes softened into something more contemplative as he repeated your name under his breath. “Most people would have filed a restraining order against themselves by now if they were in your shoes.”
“Most people don't have a stranger fixing their plumbing at midnight after a mugging,” you countered.
He hummed, a low sound of acknowledgement. “True. We’re a pair of anomalies, aren't we? One who doesn't care to live, and one who...” He trailed off, looking at the sturdy deadbolt he’d installed earlier. “...and one who apparently can’t be killed by you.”
—
Perhaps, you formed a bond.
Because like a cat you fed once, he kept on coming back. Seeing him was almost like a routine, to be honest. A week after the mugging, he came back with tools and materials. Before you could even ask him why he was there, he was already scoffing about how his conscience didn’t let him sleep because he noted that your roof was leaking.
He said that that was what a good samaritan looked like.
Two days later, he was there again, calmly peeling a tangerine with his pocket knife. Suga didn’t look up immediately from his seated form. He was perched on your porch step, uncaring toward what seemed like an expensive coat that was touching the floor. The orange rind fell in a single, perfect spiral at his feet.
You sighed, “Don’t you have friends? Family? Even a pet?”
He raised his dark brows before he extended his hand toward you. A single, perfect slice of tangerine was impaled on the tip of his silver pocket knife, the juice glistening like amber under the dim porch light.
“Do I look friendless to you?”
You reached out and nodded while you chewed the surprisingly tasty tangerine.
He let out a short, dry huff of a laugh, snapping the pocket knife shut with a metallic snick. “I have friends. They’re my…brothers.”
“Okay, you have friends and/or family. I assume you’re unemployed because why else would you be here on a workday, no less.”
He licked his lips, a clear attempt to stop himself from smiling, though the glint in his eye said otherwise. “I’m taking a break.”
“A break,” you repeated flatly. “For a month? That’s not a break, Suga. That’s a sabbatical. Or a mid-life crisis.”
He shrugged, “Call it what you want. Anyway, what’s for dinner?”
“Are you also broke?”
—
Days like this reminded you of the faux freedom awarded to your country.
You watched as the man struggled against the police, his face bloodied yet his eyes remained defiant. “Bangtan is evil! They’ll run this country to the ground just for that fucking Sutana!”
People flinched when the police hit him with the gun on his head, rendering the man weaker. He bared his teeth to the man in the middle, someone with a perfect image of unaffected. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, draped in a coat that looked like woven midnight. He didn't look angry; he didn't even look bored. He looked like a god watching an ant scream at the rain. “I hope you and your brothers die a painful and slow death, you fucker Taehyung! I hope you suffer for eternity!”
No one had ever seen their faces. And those that did were already long dead. No official photographs even survived their infiltration. The people only knew that there were seven. The people only knew of their names: Kim Namjoon, Kim Seokjin, Min Yoongi, Jung Hoseok, Park Jimin, Kim Taehyung and Jeon Jungkook. That was it.
One of your seven nightmares finally had a face, you realized. Taehyung sighed, a soft sound of genuine exhaustion, as if he were listening to a story he had already heard a thousand times over a thousand years. “We can’t die, though,” he stated in great boredom.
They couldn’t die while your people die everyday.
They couldn't die while people who were sick suffered when Sutana could take the pain away.
They couldn’t die while your entire family died a slow death from sickness that should have been curable had it not been for their selfishness.
“But you will if you don’t stop-”
“I will never stop! You people are evil! Rotten to the very core! Selfish people-” His words trailed off into a wet gasp when Taehyung gave a microscopic nod to the guard. You felt the air in the plaza turn cold. You knew what was happening; you had seen this choreography of execution before. The "mercy" of the state was always swift and silent.
You couldn’t take this anymore.
But just as you were about to step out of the crowd, a hand decisively pulled you back. You turned and there was Suga, looking at you with darkness in his eyes, his face devoid of any emotion as he shook his head. How he was here, you didn’t know.
“Let go,” you gritted.
“It’s not worth it.”
“He’ll die-”
“And you will die if you step up,” he hissed, his hold on you tightened as he pulled you closer to him and away from the crowd. You tried to pull yourself free to no avail. “Is that what you want?”
“No one should live that long,” you said, your voice cracking as you gestured toward Taehyung’s form. “You know that. It’s an insult to everyone who actually has to bleed.”
Suga, for the first time since you met him, looked at you with intensity and coldness you have never seen before. His jaw was clenched. “And you don’t get to die just because you want to, jagiyah.”
You frowned before turning to the scene behind you just in time for Taehyung to lift his eyes to you. His dark brows raised when he turned to the man behind you. He tilted his head, a flicker of familiarity and curiosity glinted in his eyes. They held eyes for a moment too long before Taehyung chuckled lowly as though in faint amusement. He didn't say a word. He simply turned around, his coat billowing behind him as he walked away, leaving the scent of ozone and expensive tobacco in his wake.
—
He uncapped the bottle before wordlessly handing it to you.
You were seated near the river where you first met, but this time was quiet. You could pretend that everything was fine, that everything was normal but reality would always remind you of what was the truth.
You live in a time where speaking up would mean death.
Suga turned to you, “You’re suicidal-”
“Excuse-”
He lifted his hand before shaking his head, his dark hair swaying gently with the wind. “Wasn’t a question,” he sighed before fully turning to you. “Don’t you have friends? Family? A pet?”
The irony was a bitter pill. Those were the exact words you had thrown at him on your porch when you thought he was just a lonely, unemployed man with a pocket knife and a conscience.
You scoffed at him, the only indication that you heard him as the spark that was usually in your eyes was nowhere to be found. It was a moment too long that he thought you wouldn’t answer him. The sound of water running with the current was the only thing that could be heard.
“I don’t have a family. They…they left me. I supposed they’re all together now if heaven is real,” you said quietly. You didn’t look at him. You couldn't. You kept your gaze fixed on the dark ripples of the river, the same river that had seen your first meeting and was now witnessing your unraveling.
“I don’t have friends because everyone’s just so busy surviving that human connection doesn’t seem like a necessity. Kindness seemed like a flaw, and tomorrow is not promised. I can’t even take care of myself. How can I take care of a pet?”
The words were a confession of defeat, a surrender to the gray reality that had swallowed the country whole. You stared at the dark water, waiting for him to agree, to shrug, or to tell you that’s just the way the world worked now.
“Then I’ll be your friend,” he said decisively.
The weight of his tone made you turn. He wasn't looking at the river anymore; he was looking at you with a terrifyingly steady gaze. There was no hesitation in his eyes, no room for argument.
“From now on, we’re the best of friends.”
A hollow, startled laugh bubbled up in your chest, but it died before it reached your lips. “It doesn’t work like that—”
“It works however I say it works,” he countered, his voice cutting through your protest like a blade. He leaned closer, the shadow of his silhouette merging with yours in the moonlight. The warmth you had felt on the porch was gone, replaced by a fierce, protective iron.
“So don’t go around trying to get killed,” he hissed, his fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the stone bench. “You don't get to decide that your life is worth nothing when you’ve got someone counting on you to show up. You wanted a reason? There it is. Here I am.”
—
“You’re one, clingy friend,” you noted as he trailed behind you in the small, rundown groceries.
He walked behind you with an expression of profound annoyance, looking very much like a man being forced to participate in a tedious chore when no one was making him do this. It was a sharp contrast to the way you’d found him that morning: leaning against your porch railing at sunrise as if he’d never left, waiting for you to wake up.
“Best friend,” he corrected. “And why do you have to buy groceries every two days? Why not just buy for the whole week?” he grumbled even as he pushed you gently aside to push the cart for you.
“Because if I die, then I’m just wasting food, am I not?” you said it so nonchalantly that one would think you were merely talking about the weather or what you were going to cook for dinner.
The rattling of the cart’s wheels stopped abruptly. The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the distant hum of a flickering fluorescent light.
Suga didn’t look up immediately. His hands remained gripped on the handle of the cart, his knuckles turning white. When he finally shifted his gaze to you, the annoyance had vanished, replaced by an intensity that made the air in the narrow aisle feel thin.
“You’re not going to die,” he said. It wasn’t an encouragement or a comfort; it was a cold, hard statement of fact.
“Who knows?” you countered, reaching for a small bag of rice.
You did know. You could feel it in the way your breath hitched when you climbed the porch steps, in the persistent, dull ache that lived beneath your ribs—the exact symptoms your family before you had felt. The doctor had been brief when he had told you it was the early stages of the same sickness they had. There were medicines and treatments to prolong your life, but truly, why prolong the agony?
You nodded, thanked the doctor and went to work that day.
“I think you’ll live a long and happy life if you’re smart about it,” you told him, your back facing him as you looked at the tangerine on the shelf.
"You’re talking like you’re saying goodbye," he murmured, his hand reaching around you to pull the tangerine from your grasp. He didn't put it back; he turned it over in his fingers, his eyes boring into the side of your face. "I'm pretty sure 'best friends' don't just wish each other a happy life and walk away."
He stepped around to face you, forcing you to look up. His expression was a mix of irritation and a strange, burgeoning concern he was trying desperately to hide. “You’re not going to die,” he announced as though his words were law before walking away with your groceries.
—
“What was your family like?” you asked him as he washed the dishes. You wanted to think that you didn’t particularly care about what he looked like, nor the way he carried himself with such certainty. But the truth was, you noticed. You noticed how he preferred dark clothings, or how he ran his fingers through his hair several times a day, or how he loved napping, or that how much he seemed to always carry tangerines with him.
You noticed how broad his back was.
You noticed how handy he was.
You noticed how his constant faux annoyance was just a front.
You noticed how well he took care of you even when you didn’t ask him to, even when no one did before.
Simply put, you noticed Suga.
“What was your family like?” he asked back before wiping his hands and facing you. He looked domestic in this light, you thought, with only his black shirt. It was something so simple but on him it seemed as though he stepped right out of a photoshoot.
You tilted your head before gesturing for him to sit beside you. You clicked on your outdated phone and onto the album of photos you downloaded when social media was still allowed. He sat beside you, pulling his chair closer to you. Your shoulders brushed as he looked down at your screen. He was close.
Too close, you thought, that he could see the tinging on your cheeks if he wanted to. You cleared your throat before zooming the photo.
“This was my father,” you pointed at the screen. “And beside him was my mother.”
You fondly looked at the people who were the last person to love you in this world.
“That’s you?” he asked, pointing at the seven-year old you in between your parents. You were grinning wildly, your missing tooth on display. The picture was taken in the plaza back when everything was normal, back when the Seven was still trying to play nice with your country. It was during a festival, your background full of people mingling with each other, and even through the picture, you could see happiness where it once was.
“I was adorable, right?”
He smiled softly, his eyes twinkling, “I’ve seen cuter kids. Me, for example. I was the most adorable kid my age.”
You looked at him with deadpanned eyes. “Sorry, I’ll only believe it when I see it.”
“Oh so you do want to see it.”
“I do,” you shot back , your brows raised at the challenge in his tone.
He tilted his head to the side as he smirked at you. “ Too bad I don’t have pictures or else you’ll find me so adorable you would have pinched my cheeks by now.”
You couldn’t help a laughter escape you at his audacity. Your head was bent back, your melodious laughter echoing throughout your small house. You looked divine, Yoongi thought. You looked like you were happiness personified, a vibrant splash of color in a world he had helped turn monochrome. Seeing you laugh was something akin to the way they felt when they discovered Sutana.
It was a dangerous feeling.
They ruined cities for that. They had burned entire legacies to the ground just to hold that kind of power in their palms, to ensure they were the ones who decided who lived, who smiled, and who withered.
His heart stopped when you turned to him, your lower lip in between your teeth to stop yourself from smiling. “Liar. Where’s the proof then, Suga?” you leaned closer, teasing glint still in your eyes.
Would you still look at him like that if you knew?
Would you still let him in if you knew?
You wouldn’t, he was certain of it.
So instead, he softly tucked a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. “Perhaps, I am. I guess you just have to take my word for it.”
“W-what? Don’t tell me you didn’t have cameras back then,” you stuttered slightly, the proximity finally catching up to your pulse. You tried to regain your footing with a playful scoff. “I mean, I think you’re only, what, three to five years ahead of me or something—”
“Is this your way of asking me about my age?”
“Is it working?”
Suga chuckled before tapping your nose. “I’m a lot older than you.”
“Liar. You looked like you're only 31, tops.”
“It does seem that way, doesn’t it?”
Before he left for the night, he turned to you. He adjusted his coat, the fabric rustling in the quiet of the foyer. He reached for the handle, pausing at the threshold. Before he stepped out into the night, he turned back to you, his silhouette framed by the porch light.
“I’m 107.”
You rolled your eyes at him before locking the door, “Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England.”
—
Yoongi walked into his penthouse. The space was a study in shadows, carved out only by the cold, electric glow of the skyline bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
There was something wrong.
Without a word, Yoongi moved toward the marble island of the kitchen. His movements were fluid, practiced in the dark. The amber liquid caught the city lights as it hit the crystal, the soft clink of the decanter the only sound in the room. He poured whiskey into two glasses, the sharp, peaty scent rising to meet him. He walked to where Namjoon was seated in the dark. He was quietly reading on his tablet, no doubt about the reports on Sutana.
Yoongi stopped a few feet away, extending one of the glasses. “I thought only the maknaes break into my place when they’re bored. Apparently, that includes you now, Namjoonie.”
Namjoon finally looked up, the tablet’s glow making his features look stark and tired. He reached out, his fingers brushing against Yoongi’s as he took the glass. He didn't offer an apology, nor did he look surprised that Yoongi had already poured him a drink.
“Long time no see, hyung,” he greeted lowly before hee took a slow, deliberate sip of the whiskey, letting the burn settle. “Been busy?”
Yoongi chuckled before plopping down beside him and drinking his own. “Out with it. We know each other for too long to play these games.”
“91 years of it.”
He nodded, “Almost a whole fucking century. I always have a good read on you, Yoongi…except now.”
“Taehyung,” he muttered under his breath as though in explanation. Of course the younger member tattled. “But did he also tell you he showed his fucking face in public?”
Namjoon swiped the tablet screen, and a grainy, thermal-enhanced image appeared. It was a still from a high-altitude drone, zoomed in so far the pixels bled. It showed two figures tucked away near a stone bench by the river. One was unmistakably Yoongi, his posture uncharacteristically protective. The other was a woman- small, defiant, and entirely human.
"Taehyung is a wildfire; he likes the spectacle," Namjoon said, turning the tablet toward Yoongi. "But you? You’re the hearth. You don’t move unless there’s a purpose. So tell me, what purpose does she serve?"
Yoongi didn't look at the screen. He didn't need to. He could still feel the phantom warmth of her hair against his knuckles, the way her laughter had momentarily drowned out the decades of blood on his hands. He took a long, burning swallow of whiskey.
"She doesn't serve a purpose, Namjoon. She’s just a girl who buys too many tangerines and thinks I’m an unemployed thirty-one-year-old."
Namjoon sighed, “I know that look in your eyes, Yoongi hyung. It’s the exact look in Seokjin and my eyes that started this entire conundrum decades ago. She’s human. She will die, eventually-”
“She’s not going to die,” Yoongi countered. It wasn’t a hope; it was a decree. The kind of statement that had leveled cities and reshaped nations.
Namjoon sighed, “She’s dying even as we speak, hyung. She will, unless you give her Sutana.”
“Or unless I stop taking it,” Yoongi added. His voice was a flat, freezing line of defiance.
Namjoon froze, his glass halfway to his lips. He turned fully now, the blue light of the tablet making his eyes look like a cold flint. “You’ll die for a girl?”
“You live for a girl,” Yoongi shot back, his eyes cutting to Namjoon’s. “You and Seokjin hyung still live for her. We are all in this situation because you two can’t let go of someone who should have already died decades ago. How long will we keep her in between life and death?”
Namjoon’s composure shattered. He slammed the whiskey glass onto the marble island, the crystal miraculously holding but the liquid sloshing over his hand. He surged to his feet, his shadow towering against the city lights.
“Until we fucking perfect Sutana and its ability to bring her back to life!” Namjoon roared, his voice cracking with a raw, human agony that he usually kept buried under layers of logic and leadership.
He leaned over the table, his face inches from Yoongi’s. “If I have to burn this country to the ground to find the missing sequence needed for her, I will. And you know Seokjin-hyung would do worse.”
Yoongi didn't flinch. He just looked at the man he had called a brother for over a hundred years—a man who was currently losing his mind over a memory kept on life support.
“Then we’re both fools,” Yoongi said quietly, swirling the amber liquid in his cracked glass. “The difference is, my girl is still laughing. Yours hasn't opened her eyes since the 1950s.”
Namjoon recoiled as if stung, his chest heaving. The silence returned, but it was different now, tainted by the secret that fueled their empire. “Then you should learn from our mistakes. Give her the Sutena now.”
Yoongi finally broke eye contact before downing his whiskey. “She hates us, Namjoon,” Yoongi admitted, the words coming out like a confession. “She hates everything we’ve built. She loathes how we destroyed this fucking country just to harvest that sequence. If—if I give her a dose... if I turn her into what we are... she will never forgive me. She’ll look at me with the same eyes that man in the plaza had.”
He thought of your laughter in the kitchen, the way you’d teased him about his age, and the sheer, stubborn humanity of your refusal to fear the end. To give you Sutana was to kill the person he had come to love.
“She will have eternity to forgive you, hyung. Trust me, it’s better that she hates you than not be here at all. You think you can handle the silence? I am telling you, you can’t. None of us can.”
—
“Nope,” you answered, popping the P as you two walked home.
“You didn’t even consider it,” he grumbled as he took your bag and carried it for you. He looked like a petulant child with the way he was pouting.
“What’s there to consider in your hypothetical question, Suga?” You adjusted the strap of your sweater, your breath hitching slightly as the incline of the street began to pull at your lungs. You ignored the familiar dull ache beneath your ribs, focusing instead on his sudden, strange intensity. “You asked me if, given the chance, I’d take a 'miracle cure' to live forever. I said no.”
“It’s not just a miracle. If you take it, you’ll never die. You’ll never have to say goodbye. You can see the world and you won’t run out of time.”
You frowned before gently hitting his shoulder with yours. “Doesn’t that sound like a nightmare? Isn’t the beauty of life is that it’s not forever? Imagine being stuck in a world that keeps breaking, and you’re the only one who can’t leave. That’s not a gift, Suga. That’s basically a prison sentence.”
He stopped walking and reached for your wrist. His touch was soft, his eyes even softer as he looked like he was begging for something you didn’t know how to give. “But what if…what if I die first and I leave you alone?”
You blinked at the oddness of his question. “Then…then I guess… No. I know I’ll miss you forever. I'd probably still buy an extra tangerine every Tuesday just out of habit.”
He didn't smile. If anything, he looked more haunted. “What if you die first?”
“Then I’ll wait for you in between heaven and earth just so you won’t have to go there alone.”
Yoongi felt the words like a physical blow to the chest. Heaven. He hadn't thought about that place in a century. He had spent so long building a kingdom on earth, fortifying it with blood and science, that he’d forgotten what it was like to believe in anything beyond the next dose.
He looked at you, truly looked at you, standing there in the flickering streetlamp light. You were so small, so temporary, and yet you were offering to guide an ancient, weary soul through the afterlife.
His thumb brushed against the skin of your wrist, tracing the rhythm of a heart that was already failing. He wanted to tell you that there was no heaven for people like him. He wanted to tell you that he had already traded his soul for a seat at a table of seven gods.
Instead, he let go of your wrist and looked away, his jaw tight.
“You’re a terrible liar,” he muttered, though there was no heat in it. “You’d probably get bored waiting and find someone else to annoy with your tangerine talk.”
You nodded before chuckling at him. “Probably. No promises. Come on, I’m starving.”
—
“It’s getting worse.”
“I know. I can feel it.”
Normal activities were starting to feel like a death sentence. Waking up in the morning was starting to feel like a gift. Working was starting to feel like a prison.
Your time was running out.
You were never scared of the end, you thought. It was simply a transition to somewhere where your family was. It was simply something that needed to occur so you could leave this country. You accepted that death would come to you sooner than you thought. You had no one, so you never had to think of what or who you’d leave behind.
What you didn’t expect was him.
Because now, you were thinking of what to come when you leave this Earth. You wanted to think that he was going to be okay, that he had his brothers to stay with him.
He wouldn’t be lonely, right?
He shouldn’t.
The walk back from the clinic felt longer than usual, each step a deliberate negotiation with a body that was beginning to revoke its lease. You stopped at the corner, leaning against a rusted lamp post to catch your breath, watching the familiar silhouette in the distance.
You saw him paced back and forth in front of your small house, his hands on his waist. He needed to start getting used to you not being present, what with your imminent death and all. He needed to start getting used to this, you thought—this version of the world where you weren't present. He needed to practice seeing the porch empty. He needed to learn how to buy his own tangerines again.
You watched him for a moment, your heart aching with a heaviness that had nothing to do with your lungs. You had never been scared of the end. To you, death was just a quiet transition, a way to finally bypass the borders of a broken country and find the people who had loved you first. You had accepted the timing of your exit with a calm, practiced stoicism.
What you hadn't factored into your departure was him. Or how much you felt for him. Or how, in this bleak world, he was the only color you ever saw.
The moment he saw you, his pacing stopped instantly. His entire body went rigid, his expression shifting from agitation to a look of profound, terrifying relief that he tried—and failed—to mask with a scowl.
“You’re late,” he barked, though his voice lacked its usual bite. He started toward you, his strides long and urgent. “Where were you? I’ve been standing out here for an hour.”
“W-why are you waiting for me?”
“What do you mean why? We always do this,” he snapped, gesturing vaguely at the porch chairs where you’d spent the last month trading barbs and fruit peels. “I stay, you talk, we eat. It’s the routine.”
“I didn’t ask you to,” your voice was cold as you walked past him. If you hurt him enough, if you pushed hard enough against that strange, fierce loyalty of his, then he wouldn't mourn you. If he hated you, the silence wouldn't be quite so loud when you finally stopped speaking.
Bold of you to assume you meant much to him as he meant to you, you thought.
“You didn’t have to. In fact, you never had to. You know why? Because I want to be here.”
“Well, I don't want you here,” you lied, the words tasting like copper in your mouth. You gripped the strap of your bag until your knuckles turned white. “I’m tired, Suga. I’m tired of the noise, tired of the tangerines, and tired of you loitering on my porch like you have nowhere else to go. Go back to your ‘brothers.’ Go back to your real life.”
Yoongi didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He stood there like a statue carved from moonlight, watching the way your pulse thrummed erratically in your neck.
“You are obviously tired, so I’ll go. But this is not goodbye.”
“Suga, I meant what I—”
“I know what you said,” he interrupted softly, his jaw set in that stubborn line you’d grown to know so well. “And I’m choosing to ignore it because you’re a terrible liar when you’re exhausted. Sleep. Lock the door. If I find out you stayed up trying to clean this place, I’m moving in permanently.”
–
“You’re one stubborn man.”
“For fuck’s sake, no one knows privacy in this fucking family,” Yoongi grumbled as he stepped out of his bedroom only to find the rest of his brothers in his kitchen. He couldn’t even say he woke up on the wrong side of the bed. He hadn’t gone to bed since you sent him away, anyway.
This house used to be his sanctuary, but now he wanted nothing more but to go to you. His family was here, and yet, his very soul was telling him that something was incomplete, that someone was not here.
That he could lose you.
That he was losing you.
“Why are you stalling?” Seokjin asked from the kitchen, his back to them as he cooked calmly. He was never one to pull his punches, though. He looked at Suga with a blank face even as the young man stared straight on. “Are you an idiot?”
Jimin chuckled and almost choked on the coffee he was drinking. Hoseok gently patted the younger man’s back.
“This is all your fault,” Yoongi grumbled at Taehyung who was silently working on his laptop. “You and your blabbermouth-”
“But hyung! You have been so secretive and we haven’t seen you in months. We just wanted to know what you’re up to .We’re family, remember?” Jungkook defended Taehyung with a pout.
“It’s my business.”
“So I take it, she’s your business?” Seokjin asked, facing him with a frown on his otherwise emotionless face.
“Yes.”
“Do you let your ‘business’ die?”
“She’s not dying!” Yoongi raised his voice, something that happened very seldomly that it managed to render the entire room stupored with shock. He wasn't one to ever lose control. He wasn’t one to ever raise to anger. He wasn’t one to ever not think rationally.
But you…you brought out something in him he never thought he was capable of. The number of times he uttered the words of you not dying were becoming annoying.
This should have been a fact and not something that could be debated.
“I let mine die once, hyung…” Taehyung said, his voice deep while his eyes were faraway. He was back to the time when she died in his arms, when he wanted to be noble. When he was kinder than he was now, back when he listened to her desires instead of his own heart.
Back before her death ripped his heart away from in him. “I won’t make the same mistake twice.”
Yoongi’s form softened. He knew how much Taehyung suffered, how he watched her died, and eventually, how he had to bury her.
“I know, Tae… But she’s different. She’s healthy, she’s young. You don’t have to wor-”
Taehyung sighed, “She’s sick.”
Silence.
Yoongi knew they were talking, but he couldn’t hear a word they were saying.
You were sick. And he didn’t know.
How could he not know? You were… you were always with him. Shouldn’t he have known if you were sick?
He was shaking his head. Denial was coursing through him-
“In fact, she’s dying,” Taehyung drove the final nail.
Namjoon, who had been quiet the entire fiasco, passed him the tablet. Your file was there. Your entire life, your education, career, entire family history, how they died, how you would most likely die from the same illness.
The doctor’s records were clear.
Your illness was progressing. There was nothing they could do about it.
Unless…
—
His head was bowed down when you saw him.
You never thought you’d see him so forlorn. He had always been full of life. He may not be jumping with joy, but he was never one to mope around.This was new, you thought. Suga was never defeated. Suga never looked defeated.
It had been a week of silence. You should have been assimilating well with his absence, afterall, you had been alone before he came barreling into your life.
But the silence was loud.
You didn’t know how much you depended on him, or how much his presence was the only color in your life, or how without his constant presence, you were only going through the motions.
He looked up as though he could sense you.
His eyes were sad, that much was apparent. He looked like he hadn’t slept. He looked worn out and yet, your heart skipped a beat when his eyes met yours.
You definitely underestimated your ability to live without him. “I told you. I don’t want to be your friend, anymore-”
Yoongi didn’t say a word. Instead, he walked to you, his strides were large as he neared you. His steps were determined, even purposeful. Before you could even take a step back, Suga, for the first time, embraced you and not because he had to save you.
This time, he embraced you with all the emotions he was keeping control of.
For the first time since he could remember, Suga cried.
The man was shaking as he hugged you, his head bent low as he leaned on your shoulder. You could feel the tears streaming down his face, quickly dampening your shirt. He was, to say the least, unconsolable.
“S-Suga, what’s wrong?”
He didn’t talk. He hugged you tighter as though in fear that if he let go just an inch, that you would disappear.
“Are you hurt?” you asked, worry apparent in your voice. You tried to push him away to assess where his injuries were. The man didn’t even budge. You thought the kindest thing to do was to gently rub his back.
You didn’t know how long he refused to let you go.
You didn’t know if you ever wanted to.
“Don’t leave me,” he ordered. “I don’t want to be alone again.”
“Why?” you asked.
“Because I love you.”
—
Someone loved you.
Someone finally loved you, just when you were running out of time. What a cruel trick the universe was playing.
What a curse to love someone only to leave them.
You were staring at his sleeping form. He refused to leave, further breaking down when you wouldn’t let him in until you gave in. His eyes were swollen from crying, his hands shaking until you promised that you wouldn’t leave him.
You were lying on the bed beside him. He was holding your hand tightly even in his sleep. You traced his face with your other hand in featherlike touches. Suga was beautiful. It was apparent that God took his time with him.
He was a man with such soft heart, one that never raised his voice, one that took one look at you and knew just how to fix you. He was dependable. He was all you wished to have if only you had time.
But you didn’t.
It was selfish of you to wish him for yourself…
Gently, he opened his eyes. He looked at you with all the sadness, despair and a little bit of hope in his eyes.
“You can’t love me,” you said.
“Why?”
You bit your lip and took a deep breath. “I’m dying, Suga.”
He pressed his lips on the back of your hand, his dark eyes never wavering from you. “Not a reason enough, darling.”
“It is-”
“Do you love me?”
You blinked owlishly, willing your tears to never fall. You had to be brave not for you, but for him. You had to leave him whole. You would be hurt, but you never wanted him to experience this pain.
“That’s neither here-”
“Do you love me?”
…
“Yes.”
“Will you live for me?”
You wanted to.
God, you wanted to.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Suga,” you broke down, couldn’t even stop the tears from falling. You were dying. You were going to leave someone as wonderful as he was in this fucked up world. He was going to be alone. You knew what it was like to have been left alone. You never wanted that even to your worst enemy, let alone the one you loved.
Suga smiled despite the tears. He leaned his forehead against yours, “Just let me love you, okay? I’ll worry about the rest. Just let me love you. God, please. Just let me be with you. Please.”
He never left.
He was beside you through it all. Your body grew weary, your strength dwindling. The most normal activities took so much toll on you that you wondered if he wanted to leave you now. You had to quit your job. You had to prepare your affairs in order. Your house, the only memory left of your family and you in this world, would go to him. You knew he didn’t need this. But the way he took care of your house, fixed everything broken in it made you realized that he loved this house just as much as you did.
There were days when Suga would hold your hair away from your face as you vomited. There were days when he would have to carry you because your legs simply couldn’t support you. There were days where he would tell you stories as though it happened so long ago that you would end up chuckling at his anecdotes.
Sometimes, you would wake up and catch him looking at you with indecisiveness in his eyes.
He looked like he was battling with something beyond you.
But everytime he noticed you looking at him, he would simply smile and kiss you tenderly.
Things progressed so quickly that you knew your time was eventually running out.
Things progressed too quickly that Suga knew he was running out of time.
It was one night when you woke up in a hospital bed when he finally asked. “If you could live forever with me…would you?”
You smiled at him as you reached your hand laddled with dextrose to him. “My love, I would live the rest of my life with you.”
You told him that if reincarnation was real, that if you get another chance in life, that you would find him, that you would recognize him.
You told him that you would love him again the way he deserved, the way that you could fully give, without the constraint of time nor health.
But Suga didn’t believe in reincarnation. He did believe that there was no redeeming him, that hell was the only option for him. He believed that he couldn’t and wouldn’t live without you.
Without you, he’d simply perish.
You didn’t think you’d wake up.
You thought you wouldn’t ever again.
“You finally decided to give her Sutana, Yoongi,” a man’s voice said from behind, his voice deep and authoritative.
Yoongi?
Why would one of the seven be here?
It was too quiet for a moment until Suga answered. “I can’t live without her.”
You had been a fool.
You trusted the man who destroyed your country.
You even loved the man who was one of the reasons why you lost your family.
“Will she forgive you?”
You recognized that voice. The distinct deep voice, the way every syllable was without any emotion, the man you saw in the town square.
Kim Taehyung.
“I can’t exactly ask for forgiveness to a dead person, can I?” Suga- no. Yoongi replied. You felt his hand gently caress your hair. You tried so hard to even your breath, to not let your eyes even move behind your closed lids.
He wasn’t lying when he said he was 107 years old.
You were just too naive to think of it as anything but a lie.
They spoke as if the choice had always been theirs, that your disposition in living forever didn’t even matter. Sutana was an immortality drug. They lied when they marketed it as something that had to be taken monthly. No.
These seven men had been alive for so long. They discovered the door to immortality decades ago. The invasion was not necessary…
They did it for the missing sequence they needed to bring someone back from the dead.
You thought they were bad…but this was worse. They were playing God not only to the living but also to the dead. You shuddered at the realization.
You couldn’t breathe.
“We’re going to be so happy together.”
You wouldn’t be happy.
You left when you were finally alone.
And so, for the next decades, Yoongi would look for you. You would run every time.
He had given you immortality, but he had forgotten one thing: forever is a very long time to hide.
▷ Subnautica x Gachiakuta // featuring Enjin X readerH̶̿̀͊̍̈́͑̓̈́̃̆́ X Tamsy
▷ Life pod 21 criticalХ̶̀͊̍̈́͑̓̈́̃̆́ error, dispatched! ̷T̷̷h̷̷r̷̷e̷̷e̷ ̷c̷̷r̷̷e̷̷w̷̷m̷̷e̷̷m̷̷b̷̷e̷̷r̷̷s̷ on board! Emergency langing on an unknown planet–Х̶̿̀͊̍̈́͑̓̈́̃̆́
▷ !Spoiler warning: no Subnautica spoilers, Gachiakuta manga spoilers (up to chapter 161)
▷ No knowledge of Subnautica required to enjoy the fic. The story loosely follows the original game. Many things are changed to better fit the pacing.
!Warnings: nsfw, blood, injuries, panic attacks (if you squint), Tamsy?
-> -> -> Three persons wake up in a life pod floating in the middle of a borderless ocean. They have to quickly come up with a survival plan, so as not to run out of the precious energy.
MASTERLIST <-
One, two, three. Your head bumps into the back of the safety seat. Four, five, six. You wrap your fingers around the restraining arm of the seat. Seven, eight, nine, you flex, the core muscles of your body burning, arms shaking. The restraint doesn’t budge, so you let out a long huff, surrendering to the seat once again.
“Life-pod 21 systems down, assess damage.” Says the monotone, robotic voice of the life-pod assistant. You nod your head, irritated at the mindless machine. Ever since you woke up, you’ve heard it at least ten times. If only the stupid, jammed safety restraint of your seat let go, you could assess the damage all you want.
The life pod is dark, filled with a reddish hue from the single emergency bulb. There’s an eerie crack to your side, the wired guts of the vehicle spilt over the wall, short-circuiting and emitting smoke.
You have to keep calm; panic and anger are not welcome in a crisis like this. Follow the protocol and work with the life support systems. Easy. That’s how they always put it during the training meetings on your spaceship. If only your whole predicament wasn’t out of protocol.
You take a few breaths and attempt to push at the restraint again. The metal parts whine and finally give up, the safety arm shooting upwards. With a groan, you spill out of the seat, your limbs pooling on the floor like sap.
You must have been awake for a few hours, your mind slowly catching up with the situation. Yet, your body will need a bit more time to wake up. Standing, you feel every crack, stretch and bruise. At least your head stopped spinning some time ago.
Wobbly like gello, you stand up, propping yourself on the seat. Now you can finally assess the damn damage, so you start with the most important matter – your crewmates.
Enjin sits on your left, Tamsy in front. Both of them are breathing, which you already managed to spot from your safety-seat jail. None seems to be heavily bleeding or twisted in any deranged way. Yet, both of them are totally out.
On leaden legs, you stomp towards the medical kit fastened to one of the walls. You open the container, rummage through the mess and pick out the vials and syringes. The label reads ‘First aid’. It's supposed to be an initial medication for the general restoration of vital functions. Everything and anything, really, but you put your hope in the colourless fluid.
You start with Enjin. A hiss escapes your lips when you crouch, your knees bending painfully. Your ass plops on the floor, and you surrender. You tug on his arm, which falls out of the seat. Scrunching your nose, you start the treatment. After applying the content of the vial, you tap on the screen fastened to Enjin’s wrist.
“This is crewmate OS-12, Olympus, access code 1203, assessment of vital functions.” You murmur into the screen, your throat dry and burning, lips chapped. Absent-mindedly, your forehead bumps into his palm, and you stay there, waiting for the analysis, feeling the faint warmth radiating from his skin.
“Crewmate’s OS-08 vital functions status: several minor bruises, dehydration. Seek food and fluid intake immediately. If possible, seek ventilation.”
“You’ll be fine, big boy.”
Enjin’s head turns, which makes you perk up in hope, tugging on his arm even more. Unfortunately, his eyes remain closed, breathing shallow and troubled.
“Fuck, we need some air here.” With newfound energy, you move to Tamsy. His state turns out to be very similar.
You take care of your own needs last. You give yourself a dose of the medicine and fumble through the emergency food and water rations. Since the life pod can hold up to four people, the reserves are not too bad. Still, looking at the very tangible amount of calories and clean water makes your stomach turn in fear.
Once again, you take a long breath. Panic and anger are to be avoided. There’s everything you need to survive in the life-pod, or at least you hope so.
“Assess the situation.” You turn towards the small interface of the vehicle.
“Current status: passengers number: three; crewmates OS-05, OS-08, OS-12; life-pod 21 dispatched from a sub-ship of the exploratory unit Olympus; food and fluid reserves for approximately six days; solar system down; lack of energy source disables primary functions; radio damaged; fabricator functioning; three power cells functioning; current energy level: 75%.”
“Assess the environment.”
“No immediate damage in the radius of 50 metres detected. Atmosphere: hospitable. It is safe to open the hatch. Further analysis is unadvised. Save energy until power systems are restored.”
“At least one of us here keeps our cool.” You let out a troubled laugh.
You gaze up at the hatch. Ever since you started your little operation, more and more light fell through the round glass embedded in the roof of the life-pod. Now, a painfully shiny beam cuts through the crimson-tinted darkness of the vehicle. It looks like sunlight.
“Let’s get it over with and see what the hell we head dive into.”
Powered by filtered water, two dubious calorie bars, and restrained anger, you climb the few steps of the horizontal ladder leading to the hatch. You grip the handle and unlock the entrance, a hiss escaping from inside.
You always preferred to rip the band-aid off clean, so now, instead of slowly poking your head outside, you grab the sides of the round hole and push yourself outside, kicking the metal bars of the ladder. Your breath hitches.
As far as you can see, water fills everything. It sparkles in the morning sun, bouncing in delicate waves. Everything seems somehow still and vibrantly alive at the same time. There’s nothing here, but everything moves. The space is entirely open, but there’s no deadly wind, only a light breeze. The sun shines far off in the distance, and a few clouds glide lazily. On the opposite side of the horizon, a huge purple planet obscures the otherwise bright blue sky. Water splashes onto the life pod.
You breathe in deeply, the air smells primevally, deliciously. Grabbing only the hatch door, you crawl outside and sit on your knees. Your brows knit tightly, and you groan, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to keep in the tears. They betray you and fall your cheeks, leaving salty trails. What you see is breathtaking, luminous, gut-turning, and terrifying.
Your revelation is so great that you fail to hear the steps inside the life pod. A voice calling your name tears you from the trance. Your head turns abruptly, and you see a curtain of hair dancing in the breeze. Tamsy is halfway out through the hatch, staring right at your tear-stained face. There’s something at the tip of his tongue, something that should spill from his lips, but he looks around and freezes. Just like you, he crawls out and takes in the view.
“Where are we?” Tamsy asks, but he isn’t looking your way. The question is not meant for you. It’s directed at the sun, at the waves.
You grit your teeth and ball your fists. Tears fall from your eyes once again, wetting your lashes. On all fours, you crawl over to him and throw your arms over his neck. He’s alive, he’s awake, he’s here.
“Tamsy.” You palm his shoulders, the hair that falls over them and the front of his long-sleeve undershirt. “Fuck, Tamsy, I’m so happy that you’re alright.”
“I am, I am, I’m fine.” He finds your wandering hands and holds them tightly, interlocking your fingers, squeezing with reassurance. “What about you? How long have you been awake? Are you feeling alright? Does anything hurt?”
The only thing you can do is sniffle and shake your head.
“Hours.” You look up to stop the pitiful spillage of tears. “I don’t know.”
“Gods, you were alone all this time.” He tries to find your eyes, and you let him, looking straight into his ghastly bright ones. “I’m here, I’m awake.”
You nod, the last of the tears runs down your cheeks and falls on the cool white metal of the life-pod. They roll over the edge and disappear into the ocean water.
“Thank you, I think I’m better.” Tamsy nods in approval. He lowers your intertwined hands and rests them in his lap. Then he looks to the side, trying to take in the width of the blue and blue horizon.
“We have to repair the life-pod.” He says.
We have to repair the life-pod quickly starts sounding like you have to repair the life-pod. After giving yourself a while to breathe, calm down and gather your thoughts, you and Tamsy wedge back into the vehicle.
The fog clouding your brain surrenders, and you slowly start to take in the circumstances. The life pod is tiny. Apart from the four seats, there’s a little space to step around the ladder, a round storage squeezed between the floor and wall, a fabricator and radio, and the interface. There’s a short list of damaged systems displayed in an aggressive red font. Next to the screen, your four little hopes – the energy cells.
The cylindrical batteries are pushed into the sockets in the wall. Each one weighs a significant amount and, if held, takes up both of your hands. You know them quite well, having worked with them for most of your life. That’s why the familiar blunt shape fills you with comfort. As long as they’re working, you’re safe. But the glowing circular line engraved in each cell screams in your face. It shows how much energy each cell has left. Two of them are full, one is at approximately three-quarters.
Tamsy is fumbling with the food reserves.
“What did you eat? And what exactly did you use from the medical kit?”
Both of you seem to click into your designated roles. Tamsy is a doctor. It suits him quite well. He’s quick to pick up a few useful items and offers to check you. You gladly agree, unzipping the dirty long-sleeve and kicking off your shoes.
The roof of the life-pod serves as a makeshift office. In the glistering sunlight, both you and Tamsy may count every bruise blooming on your skin. You must have hit your left side the worst, because a blue and grey mark snakes from over your shoulder, through the back, all the way to your ribcage. It kinda looks like the safety seat. Tamsy also has a few bigger and smaller bruises, but apart from that, you’re both fine. The life pod worked exceptionally well.
Judging from the sun, it’s somewhere around midday when Enjin groans loudly, and a stream of curses echoes through the darkish vehicle.
“Fuck!” He shouts and starts to call your name.
The empty seats must have given him a heart attack, because when he sees your face sticking inside the pod, he nearly jumps out of his skin. He tries to stand up, his movement haphazard and aggressive, but his safety restraint is also jammed. You descend the ladder as quickly as you can and help him with the seat.
Soon, Enjin is standing, huffing heavily as if he just ran a marathon.
“Where the hell are we? How long have I been out? Were you alone all this time?” His gaze is sharp, angry. He’s furious at himself that he wasn’t the first one to wake up.
“No, I’m not alone. I think I’ve been awake for more than ten hours, but half the time I’ve spent trying to get out of my seat.” You point at the faulty restraint, and he nods. “You should get out of the pod; it’s stuffy in here. Also, let Tamsy check you for any serious injuries.”
“Tamsy? What the hell is he doing here?”
That’s a question you don't want to bother with until you feel safe enough to start arguing with your crewmates. Tamsy shouldn’t be here, you know that. But you cannot bombard him with accusatory questions, not now.
“Enjin,” you face him, “it’s not important right now. We can talk about the whole incident with the life pod later. My mind is fuzzy, and yours must be too.” You grab his shoulders. “Go out and see what we’re dealing with. Then decide if you want to start fighting with a useful, healthy crewmate, who, on top of everything, is a doctor.”
Enjin rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he looks up at the open hatch, feeling the breeze. He climbs the ladder up, then down.
“Hole shit.” He goes up once again. Then he turns his head down to look at you. “There’s fucking nothing here.” He looks up. “Fuck me, fuck us. Hi Tamsy.”
After taking care of Enjin and rummaging through the pod's equipment, the three of you crawl outside and sit on the roof of the life-pod. None of you specialises in biology or geography, but it doesn’t take a degree to notice that the temperature is warm and cosy. The sun hangs high in the sky, tickling your cheeks and shoulders. Enjin discarded his clothes, opting to stay in the shorts-like undergarment. He sprawled out on the life-pod, legs dangling in the hatchway, basking in the midday sun. The casual attitude made Tamsy scrunch his nose in annoyance, but he said nothing. Instead, he sat legs crossed, still wrapped up in the dirty white suit. You also let go of the upper part of your clothes, staying in the sports bra, letting the sun warm up your cold skin and stiff muscles. The tiny bit of heat, after sitting for several hours in the dark pod, feels like a spa.
You let out a huff, rolling your head to loosen up your neck. When you open your eyes, you see both of them looking at you.
“So,” Enjin starts.
You know what they mean by this meaningful silence.
You found yourself on the Olympus unit as a constructor. The job was pleasant and well-paid. For some, the three-year-long space travel might have been a downside, but you thought otherwise. The spaceship had everything you needed. Work, leisure, and additional learning programmes to keep your mind stimulated. A multitude of new people, all of whom were more than eager to make acquaintances. After a year, you were supposed to land on the target planet, where you were to spend a few months, and later another year back home. All the time you were to work with the maintenance crew. Everything would be just like it was planned, if not for the random life-pod 21 error. The one that you were supposed to repair, Enjin, overlooking your work as the captain of the sub-ship, Tamsy, well, he was not supposed to be in the equation.
Now the three of you are thinking the same thought. You have to divide the work. You have to survive, repair and contact the mothership. This objective is clear and out of the question. But, how exactly do you do that if the only thing that surrounds you is water?
So Enjin and Tamsy look at you, waiting for your expertise on the state of the pod. After a second of consideration, you start.
“It looks like we have enough energy for a few days, five, maybe seven if we do not use the fabricator at all. The life-pod refuses any complex tasks in favour of saving energy.” You make a short pause, trying to guess whether they know why the energy is so crucial. “Okay, guys, how much experience do you have with scarce resources?”
“I used to go here and there, but only on fully equipped cruisers, never alone.” Enjin accentuates the word cruiser. It’s a colloquial name for all the smaller units usually meant for quick and short courses. Still, you can spend several weeks on a cruiser before it becomes uncomfortable.
“I always worked on the motherships,” Tamsy confesses softly.
“Okay,” you nod, taking in the situation, “so I’m the only one who was specifically specialised in a scarce-resources environment.” Working maintenance in your company sometimes meant being dispatched in a tiny capsule to reach a satellite or other static object in space. There, you would spend a few days working as much as you can, as fast as you can, usually in pairs with someone.
Still, this was nowhere close to being a foreign planet crash survivor. You heard stories about such people, but they were mostly partially made up. They stood on shelves next to ghosts and lottery winners.
“Then, let me tell you everything that I’ve gathered. Energy is crucial because without it, we don’t have the fabricator. If we don’t have the fabricator, we are doomed to craft from whatever we can find around. As you see, that’s a bit of a problem. In the fabricator, we can craft most of the basic materials and items that we need to inhabit.” The men nod their heads. “Right now, we are battling time. We have the energy cells, but they are not being recharged. The life pod has solar panels that will activate as soon as the system is up and going. But the crash meddled with the wiring, so right now only emergency systems are active. That’s why the pod is so quiet,” you pat the white metal as if trying to reassure it, “usually it would analyse and give us tips. Fortunately, I know how to kickstart the system.”
Hope danced behind Tamsy’s eyes.
“I found a working scanner. In my personal assistant,” you waved the small wrist screen, “I have a few useful blueprints. One of them is the repair tool. It’s crafted from fairly common materials. If, by any chance, we can extract these materials from whatever we find underwater, we can use the fabricator to craft the repair tool. Then, I can use it to get the system going. If that works, we can keep using the fabricator to prepare food and water. They will be of low quality, but they can expand our reserves substantially.”
“So, we find materials, we craft the tool, we repair the pod, we’re safe. What’s the danger once again?” Enjin asks in a command-like manner.
“Firstly, to extract the materials and craft, we need to use the fabricator. The more we use it, the less energy we have. Unless we find perfectly processed materials lying just under our pod, crafting the repair tool may drain nearly all of our energy. We have one chance at it.”
“Well, that does sound problematic." Enjin’s eyes are closed, but his brows raise. “I didn’t know these energy cells were so shitty.”
“Their sturdiness is more important than their capacity. We’re lucky they survived.” You defend the devices. “There’s a second issue.” You look at both, but when you speak, your head subconsciously tilts Enjin’s way. “If we want to gather resources, someone needs to dive.”
Summary: You were fine with your life after years of building walls to protect yourself. What happens when a basketball coach you never saw coming starts breaking them down?
Pairing: Basketball Coach Yoongi x F. Reader
Genre: Smut, Romance, Angst, Hurt-Comfort,
Warnings: Explicit Sex, Unprotected Sex, Drinking, Swearing, Past Domestic Violence, Drug reference
A/N: Okay, I had to do it. Here is part one of my Game of Healing Reimagining. Part 2 has been started, but I can't guarantee a drop date.
“ARE YOU BLIND?” You yell at the refs who blow their whistles. “YOU CLEARLY KNOW NOTHING!”
Neither did you, but it sounded right at the moment.
The parents around you laugh as your nephew Nicky looks at you in embarrassment from the basketball court. Your older brother hits his own head with his clipboard as your mother slaps you.
“You are going to get us thrown out of this game,” she hisses at you.
“It's a middle school basketball game, mother.” You roll your eyes. “Not the NHL.”
“You mean the NBA?” Chris, your little brother asks.
“What?” You ask before shaking your head. “It doesn't matter. No one is going to throw us out.”
“Why don't you go and check on Sarah?” Your dad suggests. “See how concessions are going.”
You give him a look.
They are clearly trying to get you out of the gymnasium. Rolling your eyes once more, you stand and squeeze past parents on the bleachers that were hurting your ass as you make your way out. You weren't going to fight too hard. You hated basketball. Not just basketball but sports in general. However, you could suck it up. You were just there to support your nephew. You loved him more than anything in the world and would do anything for him.
Slipping out the doors quietly, you exhale and walk over to your sister-in-law, who looked like she was starting to clean up. Slapping your hands on the counter, you lean over the over and pout dramatically.
“Can I help you?” She laughs.
“I've been kicked out,” you inform her. “Can I have chips?”
“What happened?” She questions, tossing a bag of chips at you.
“I embarrassed your kid by heckling the ref,” you shrug, causing her to laugh. “Those in-laws of yours have sticks up their asses and told me to get lost.”
“You mean your parents?” She smirks. “How are the boys doing? I can't tell what's going on in there. It's pretty loud.”
“They're losing.” You frown. “Down by nine.”
“Damn.” She swears under her breath. “We knew these Bangtan Ravens would be tough. They haven't lost a game all season.”
"Weren't the Bearcats a winning team too?” You ask remembering your brother and nephew never losing.
“Yeah,” Sarah nods. “Until Nick thought it was a good idea to move up a conference level.”
“A what?” You ask.
“Nothing,” she smiles fondly. “Get my phone. They livestream the game. We can watch while I clean up.”
From the cafeteria the inside of the gym gets louder as the fourth quarter drags on. Sneakers squeak. Whistles blow. Someone’s dad is yelling like this is the Super Bowl.
You lean against the counter, watching the clock tick down on Sarah's phone screen. Five minutes left.
“They’re playing better,” you admit reluctantly, chewing on your bottom lip.
“Your brother finally switched the lineup.” She tells you.
“Took him long enough,” you mutter, placing your hands on your hips. “I could’ve told him that.”
“Do you know what I'm talking about?” Sarah asks.
“Of course” you counter and look at her out of the corner of your eye. “Leave me alone.”
From the corner of your eye, you spot Nicky on the court. Sweaty, hair plastered to his forehead, jaw set in that way that makes your chest tighten. He misses a shot and immediately sprints back on defense, refusing to look at the crowd.
You feel it then. That familiar tug. Proud for how hard he works and worried for how serious he takes this sport.
“He’s been nervous all week,” Sarah says quietly, following your gaze. “Didn’t want to disappoint your brother.”
“Yeah, well,” you sigh, crossing your arms. “He gets that from our side of the family. Nick was always worried about disappointing dad.”
“You yelling at refs doesn’t help.” She nudges you with her elbow.
“I was advocating.” You defend yourself.
“You sound unhinged,” she giggles.
“Same thing.” You grin.
The score flashes, bright and red down by three.
“Oh.” You straighten. “Okay. Now I care.”
“I thought you hated basketball.” Sarah laughs softly.
“I hate basketball.” You correct. “I love him.”
The gym erupts as Nicky steals the ball, passes it down the court. A shot goes up.
Miss.
The collective groan is painful.
“It’s fine. He’s fine. Missing builds character.” You grip the counter, jaw tight.
“You okay?” Sarah raises an eyebrow.
“Never better,” you lie. “I’m emotionally stable.”
The Ravens score again.
Down by five.
“Damn it,” Sarah mutters.
You watch your brother on the sidelines, clipboard tucked under his arm, shouting instructions that Nicky doesn’t seem to hear. For a split second, he looks less like a coach and more like just a dad trying not to panic.
“They’ll be okay,” you say, surprising yourself with how steady it comes out. “Win or lose.”
“You always show up for him.” Sarah smiles at you, soft and knowing.
“Someone has to.” You shrug. “And I’m really good at showing up…loudly.”
The final buzzer sounds.
Game over.
The Ravens win.
The gym explodes in cheers and disappointed sighs all at once. Nicky bends over, hands on his knees, breathing hard. Then he straightens, clapping for the other team like he’s been taught, even though his shoulders slump.
Your throat tightens.
“I should go find him,” you say, already moving.
“Give him a second. Let him breathe.” Sarah reaches out, squeezing your hand.
“Yeah. Okay.” You nod, swallowing.
You grab another bag of chips, ripping it open with more force than necessary.
“Loss builds character,” you repeat.
“You gonna yell at anyone on the way out?” Sarah laughs.
You glance toward the gym doors, then smirk.
“No promises.” You laugh.
The gym is still buzzing with post-game chaos as you enter back into the gymnasium.
“Hey,” you call, pointing toward the court. “You did great. I don’t care what the scoreboard says.”
Your nephew grins, sweat-soaked and glowing, jogging over to you.
“We lost by five,” he tells you.
“Yeah, I don't think those idiots know how to score a game,” you say.
He laughs and reaches for his water bottle. You steal it.
“Hey!” He exclaims
“Hydration is a privilege,” you tell him, taking a dramatic sip before handing it back.
Your brother comes up beside you, towel slung over his shoulder, still wearing his coach face. However, it softens just a bit as he watches the two of you.
“You two ready?” He asks and your nephew nods after taking a drink. “We need to tell Coach Min good game.”
“Do we?” you ask. “I saw him trying to stare down the ref into changing his mind about giving his team extra points?”
Your brother snorts despite himself.
“Behave,” Nick warns. “He did no such thing.”
You don’t promise anything.
The handshake line is thinning when you walk over with them. Coach Min is easy to spot. Clipboard tucked under one arm, dark eyes sharp, but tired. He’s talking to one of his players, nodding once before sending him off.
Your nephew, apparently forgetting personal space exists, darts forward.
“Coach Min!” Nicky exclaims.
Coach Min turns, expression shifting immediately. Not a smile, exactly, but something warmer.
“You played hard tonight,” he says. “You keep up with that hard work. You're going to be unstoppable.”
“Thanks.” Your nephew beams.
“That last rebound?” Coach Min adds. “Good instinct.”
Your nephew straightens like he’s just been knighted.
“Coach Min, good game.” Your brother steps in then.
“Coach.” Coach Min offers his hand.
They shake.
“And this,” your brother continues, motioning toward you, “is my sister, Y/N.”
Before you can say anything, your nephew bumps your hip with his.
“She yells a lot.” Nicky laughs. “She was the one that was yelling at you about your haircut.”
“No I didn't,” you quickly deny.
“You did!” Nicky exclaims, pointing a finger at you. “When he called that timeout, you said, ‘Maybe if his bangs weren’t in his eyes, he’d see the foul on the play! But you didn't know what you were talking about. There was no foul.’”
Nick snorts, covering his mouth with his clipboard. You feel your face heat up as Coach Min finally turns his full attention to you. He doesn't look angry. If anything, there’s a flicker of genuine humor in his dark eyes.
“Is that so?” Coach Min asks. He reaches up, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his forehead. “I’ll be sure to book a barber appointment before the next game.”
“I… I’m sure your vision is fine,” you stammer, suddenly finding your shoes very interesting. “I just… I’m very supportive.”
Coach Min shifts his clipboard under his arm.
“She doesn’t even know the rules,” Nicky adds helpfully, leaning against his dad’s side. “She thought a double-dribble was a type of milkshake.”
“It sounds like a milkshake!” you argue, bumping your hip against Nicky’s.
Coach Min offers a polite nod to your brother and then looks back at you. “Well, I appreciate the ‘supportive’ energy, Y/N. It’s always good to have a vocal crowd. Even if they're critiquing my grooming habits. Well. Good luck the rest of the season,” Coach Min smiles. “We look forward to playing you again.”
“You too,” your brother says.
“Night coach!” Nicky says happily.
“Yeah, night …. coach,” you smirk. As you turn to leave, Nicky tries to trip you, sending you stumbling into a laugh. You grab him by the backpack, spinning him around.“You’re grounded,” you joke.
“You can’t ground me!” Nicky laughs as give him a little shove.
“No, but I can make you walk home,” you counter.
Behind you, you hear a quiet, huffed breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. You don't look back, but you can feel Coach Min’s eyes on your group as you bicker your way out of the gym.
“Seriously, Sunshine” Nicky whispers loudly as you reach the doors. “He definitely heard the thing about the bangs.”
“Shut up, Nicky,” you groan, though you can’t help but smile.
You loved the little shit.
“Hate to eat and run, but I have to go,” you say to your family that sits around your parents dining room table.
“Sit,” your mother demands.
You hate family dinners. It was the perfect excuse for your mother to dote on your brothers. Chris and his fiancee Elly along with Nick and his perfect family. You love them. You wouldn't change them for the world.
Even though Nick and Sarah were young parents at nineteen and practically forced to get married they made it work with the help of everyone. Your mother dedicated her life to helping them raise Nicky. So much so, she pretty much forgot about you. You pretty much had free reign to do whatever you wanted and you DID do whatever you wanted.
You were always on the back burner until you got into trouble. Then it became, why are you like this? We didn't raise you like this? Your brothers aren't like this.
No shit.
One's married with a child and responsibilities. While the other is the baby of the family who gets everything he wants. You drifted further and further away from them. Further and further into places you had no business going. Places where men gave you attention that you craved, loved and thrived off of it. Attention that would get you into trouble. Trouble that eventually you wouldn't know how to get yourself out of.
But, you don't talk about that.
You never talk about that.
“Where do you need to run off to, kiddo?” Your dad asks, trying to keep the peace.
“I have a late shift tonight,” you say. “I want to power nap.”
“I hate that nasty bar,” your mom scowls. “It's dangerous. There was a stabbing in the parking lot there last week.”
“You can always come and work for me,” Nick says. “Elly could use some help.”
“It's true,” she nods her head. “Business is picking up. I can't keep up with phones and everything else I do.”
“It would probably be a paycut,” you shake your head. “I make pretty good tips.”
“We'll match it. I'll even offer you higher,” Nick says, making you give him a deadly stare. “Come on, Sunshine. All three siblings in the family business.”
“That would be amazing,” your dad says, making you feel a tad bit guilty. “That’s all I ever wanted.”
“You might even be able to get out of that apartment,” your mother grumbles. “God knows why you stayed after ….”
“That's enough,” Sarah says, looking at Nicky who was looking around confused.
You and Chris look at one another before quickly looking away.
YOU DONT EVER TALK ABOUT IT.
“I'll think about it,” you mumble.
“Anyway,” Nick says. “I received an interesting email today.”
“Those women don't want you,” you say. “They're probably some dudes in their forties living in their parents' basements catfishing you looking for money.”
Sarah and Elly laugh as Nick rolls his eyes at you.
“No, stupid,” he says before continuing. “Coach Min emailed me. He had an idea about doing a fundraiser for some of the teams in the conferences below us that are having a hard time with travel expenses.”
“Who's Coach Min?” You ask.
“The one you flirted with,” Nicky laughs.
“I did not flirt with anyone,” you tell him.
“Yes you did,” he nods his head. “When you told him to get a haircut.”
“You clearly never seen me flirt before,” you tell him.
“Anyways,” Nick clears his throat. “I already agreed to help him and volunteered my siblings as well.”
“Excuse me,” you deadpan.
“You’re excused,” he smiles at you.
“I hope by … you're siblings … you mean the little dipshit over there,” you say, flicking your thumb at your little brother.
“Watch your mouth,” your mother sighs.
Your brother smiles.
“I'm not doing it,” you say, making him smile bigger. “I'm not.”
Two weeks later you find yourself in a strange middle school cafeteria wearing a deep purple shirt with bold black lettering on the back spelling volunteer. Nick stands up in front of the large crowd with this Coach Min and some tattooed guy that you think you saw at his side during Nicky's game.
As you look around, you almost smile. It's clear the parents don't even want to try and mingle. The Bearcats stay on one side of the cafeteria and the Ravens stay on the other. You don't blame them. The Raven's parents look stuck up. However, you can't help but wonder. Where are the rest of the teams?
“Okay,” Coach Min claps. “Thank you all for volunteering today.” You snort and his eyes turn to you. You roll your lips between your teeth and look away innocently as Sarah elbows you. “Coach Nick and I will have our respective teams duties for the day. Our expected turnout is looking pretty good so expect to be busy so we need to work together as a team to make this work. Awareness, communication …”
You grimace and look at your sister-in-law who is nodding alone with this Coach Min guy. Turning your head the other way, you look at Elly who covers her mouth so she wouldn't laugh at you. What in the hell were you going to be doing today? Aren't you supposed to be … selling stuff?
“Let's get out there and make this the best fundraiser we can,” he says.
“Yes, Coach Min,” his side of the cafeteria says.
Fucking robots man.
You must still be grimacing because once his eyes land you something flashes in them. You straighten immediately and turn away, as if you would get in trouble. You sidestep hiding behind Chris and wait until Nick makes his way over to hand out everyone's job.
You need to work on your resting bitch face.
Nick was excited about this.
“Sunshine,” your older brother says, giving you a knowing look. “You, Sarah and Elly will work the kitchen and the dining area. Think of it like your own little restaurant area.”
He hands his wife a binder.
Sarah takes it with an exaggerated seriousness, flipping it open like she’s about to run a five-star operation instead of a middle school cafeteria. Elly peers over her shoulder, already smiling.
“You’re on grill duty,” Sarah tells you immediately.
You freeze.
“I don’t cook,” you say flatly. “I microwave.”
“You work at a bar,” Sarah counters. “You can multitask under pressure.”
“Great! Everyone’s settled. Let’s get moving.” Nick claps his hands once, clearly thrilled.
You open your mouth to protest. He’s already gone, that fucker!
“Traitor,” you mutter, tugging at the hem of your purple shirt.
Time to get this over with
The kitchen is in chaos within ten minutes. You're kind of surprised it took that long.
Someone didn’t label the coolers. The hot dogs are sweating. The nacho cheese smells like melted regret. You’re trying to read the laminated instruction sheet but the letters kind of bleed together.
This fucking sucks!
“How many minutes is ‘until done’?” You ask, jabbing at the paper.
“If it starts smoking, it’s done.” Sarah doesn’t look up.
“That feels incorrect.” You place your hand on your hips. “We are going to give someone Listeria.”
“You’re doing fine.” Elly snorts as she passes you a tray.
You are not doing fine. You're nowhere near fine.
The cafeteria fills fast. Kids running. Parents hovering. A line starts forming before you’re emotionally prepared for it.
“Okay,” Sarah says, clapping once. “We’ve got this. Sunshine, you handle orders. Elly plates. I'll make sure it's all hot so no one will get sick.”
“Oh, I’m on counter duty?” you ask. “That might be even more dangerous than me cooking.”
The first order comes in. Then the second. Then five more.
You find your rhythm. Sort of.
You crack jokes. You slide trays. The Bearcat side loosens up laughing with you. Even a few Raven parents start laughing at your bad jokes. Mainly the dads.
You finish a transaction when a familiar calm voice cuts through the noise.
“Excuse me.”
You look up.
Coach Min stands on the other side of the counter. No clipboard today. Sleeves rolled up. Hair slightly mussed like he’s been running around putting out fires. He smells faintly like coffee and something clean.
You blink once.
“Oh,” you say. “You again.”
His mouth twitches.
“Is that disappointment I hear?” He asks.
“Suspicion,” you reply easily. “You’re from the enemy side.”
“We’re raising money together,” he says. “Temporary truce.”
“Hm.” You squint at him studying him for a moment. “Did you cut your hair?”
He reaches up and touches his dark blond tresses.
“I was due for a trim,” he mumbles.
“Hmm,” you smirk at that. “What do you want?”
He glances at the menu taped crookedly to the wall.
“Two hot dogs. One pretzel and whatever that is.” He points at the nachos.
“Bold,” you nod. “Living dangerously.” You shout the order back and turn to him again. “You volunteering or supervising?”
“Both,” he says. “I was sent to check how the kitchen was holding up.”
“Thriving. No fires. Yet.” You gesture around.
His eyes flick briefly to the grill. Then back to you.
“I’m impressed.” He smirks.
“You shouldn’t be,” you say. “This is mostly fake confidence.”
He huffs a quiet laugh before he can stop himself. You notice. He notices you noticing.
Elly slides the food over and you pass it to him, fingers brushing his for half a second too long. Static. Annoying.
“Here you go, Coach,” you say sweetly. “Eat at your own risk.”
“I’ll take full responsibility,” he replies before sliding you money and walking away.
Sarah leans in immediately.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “You’re flirting again.”
“I am literally handing out hot dogs,” you hiss. “That’s not flirting.”
“You’re glowing,” Elly adds.
“I’m overheating,” you snap. “This place is a sauna.”
But when you glance back out into the cafeteria and catch Coach Min’s eyes again. Just for a second, he smiles.
Not polite.
Not coachy.
Just… real.
Your stomach does that stupid thing again.
You turn back to the counter, grabbing the next order.
“Next!” you call out loudly.
This needs to end fast.
The lunch rush turns into a marathon. By the time the crowd thins out, your purple shirt is dusted with salt, your hair is a disaster, and you’re pretty sure you have nacho cheese on your elbow.
“I’m going on strike,” you announce, sliding down the wall of the kitchen to sit on a milk crate. “The union … which is just me … demands a break.”
“Go. Take ten. We’ve got the tail end of this.” Sarah laughs, wiping down the prep table.
You don’t need to be told twice. You slip out the back of the kitchen, looking for the quietest corner of the school. You find it near the equipment closet in the hallway leading back to the gym. The air is cooler here, and you lean your head against the cinderblock wall, closing your eyes.
“Is my number one supporter taking a timeout?”
Your eyes snap open. Coach Min is standing a few feet away, leaning against the opposite wall. He’s holding two cold Gatorades. He looks at you, then at the orange bottle in his right hand, and tosses it.
You catch it with one hand, the cold plastic feeling like a miracle against your palm.
“I'm off the clock,” you say, cracking the seal. “If you’re here to complain about the pretzel-to-salt ratio, talk to my manager. Which is probably you.”
“The pretzels were fine,” he chuckles.
“You look like you’re hiding,” he jokes.
“I’m not hiding. I’m regrouping. There’s a distinct possibility I might stab the next person who asks me for extra napkins,” you joke.
“I’ll keep my distance then,” he says, cracking the seal on his own drink. He takes a long drink, his Adam’s apple moving as he swallows. “Your brother mentioned you weren't exactly a ‘willing’ participant today.”
“Nick has a big mouth,” you mutter, the cold bottle feeling like a miracle against your palms. “I don't do the whole ‘community spirit’ thing.”
“For someone who hates being here, you’re surprisingly good at bullying the Raven parents into overpaying for brownies,” he says, looking amused.
“It’s not bullying. It’s aggressive salesmanship,” you counter, squinting at him. “What’s your excuse? You actually like spending your Saturdays in a room that smells like floor wax and disappointment?”
“I like the game,” he says simply, tilting his head back against the wall. “The rest of it. The paperwork, the fundraisers, the parents who think their kid is the next LeBron. It's just the tax I pay to be on the court.”
“Sounds like a high tax bracket,” you remark.
“It is.” He looks at you, his dark eyes sharp and observant. “But then I see someone like you yelling at me about my bangs from the bleachers, and it keeps things… interesting.”
“I was doing you a favor,” you say, taking a sip of the Gatorade. “It was a safety hazard. You could’ve tripped over your whistle.”
“I’ll be sure to send you my barber’s bill,” he replies, his mouth twitching.
A loud crash echoes from the cafeteria, followed by the unmistakable sound of a tray hitting the floor and your nephew’s laughter. Coach Min sighs, pushing off the wall.
“Duty calls,” he groans.
“Go save the day, Coach,” you say, staying firmly planted on your crate.
He starts to walk away, then pauses, looking back over his shoulder. “Yoongi.”
You blink, the sudden use of a name catching you off guard.
“What?” You continue to blink at him.
“My name. It’s Yoongi,” he says, his expression unreadable but definitely not ‘coachy.’ “Since you seem intent on heckling me. You might as well know my name for next time.”
He disappears around the corner before you can come up with a retort. You sit there for a second, the cold bottle still in your hand.
“Yoongi,” you mutter to the empty hallway. “Whatever.”
You stand up, tossing the empty bottle into a nearby bin. You still hate the purple shirt, but the hallway suddenly makes you think you might not hate this fundraiser as much as you thought.
The fundraiser is winding down. You’re helping Sarah load the last of the unsold soda crates when you see her.
She isn't wearing a purple volunteer shirt. She’s wearing a tailored beige trench coat and heels that have no business being on a cafeteria linoleum floor. She’s standing by the exit, blocking Yoongi’s path as he tries to leave.
“She looks like she’s about to ask to speak to the manager,” you mutter to Sarah.
“Oh. That’s… Ara…I think her name is. Her son is the Ravens' shooting guard. From what I hear … she's a lot.” Sarah says after she follows your gaze and her face drops.
You watch as Ara places a hand on Yoongi’s forearm. It isn't a casual touch. It’s lingering. Yoongi doesn’t pull away immediately, but his entire posture goes stiff. He looks tired.
“I’m going to go get more trash bags,” you say, though you’re actually just heading in their direction.
As you pass them, you hear her voice. Low, sweet, and pointed.
“You haven’t returned my calls, Yoongi,” she says to him.
“For good reason. I’m your son’s coach, Ara. Nothing more, ” Yoongi’s voice is a low rasp.
You should keep walking. You really should. However, she looks over and sees you. Sweaty, nacho-cheese-smudged, and she gives you a look of such pure, condescending pity that your "supportive" instincts flare up.
“Yoongi!” you call out, far louder than necessary.
Both of them jump. Yoongi looks at you with a mix of terror and profound relief.
“My brother is looking for you,” you lie easily, stepping right into their space. You don't look at Ara. You keep your eyes on him. “Something about the equipment shed and a missing set of keys? He’s losing his mind. He almost looks constipated."
“Right. The keys. I should...” Yoongi catches the lifeline instantly.
“And who is this?” Ara asks, her eyes raking over your purple shirt like it’s a biohazard.
“I’m the help. No one important, ” you say with a grin that doesn't reach your eyes. And you are?”
“A very dear friend of Yoongi’s,” she says, emphasizing the word friend with a sharp edge.
“Is that right?” You turn to Yoongi, tilting your head. “You have friends? I thought you just had clipboards and a brooding scowl.”
The corner of Yoongi’s mouth twitches. The tension in his shoulders drops an inch. “She’s exaggerating. As usual,” he sighs.
“I’ll call you later,” Ara says to him, her tone possessive, before she turns and sweeps out of the gym.
The silence she leaves behind is heavy. Yoongi exhales a breath he’s been holding for a long time. He rubs the back of his neck, looking everywhere except in your direction.
“You’re a pretty good liar,” he says quietly.
“It’s a gift. My mother calls it a character flaw, but I call it a service.” You lean against the doorframe. “Rough ‘friendship’ you got there, Coach.”
“It isn’t anything. It was a mistake. A couple years ago.” Yoongi looks at you then, his eyes dark and honest.
“You don't owe me an explanation,” you say. “I just didn't like the way she was looking at my shirt. It’s a nice shade of purple. Even with the nacho cheese splatter.”
“It suits you,” he says, taking a half-step closer. “And for the record? I don't want her calling me. I’d much rather deal with someone who yells at me from the bleachers about my bad hair.”
“Careful, Yoongi,” you smirk, using his name. “I’m a lot of work. Just ask my family.”
“I like work,” he replies, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m a coach, remember? I see potential where other people see a mess.”
Your stomach just doesn't flip. It does a whole fucking Olympic routine.
Traitor.
Inhaling through your nose, you remember who you are. Tilting your head, you keep the smirk on your face and take the string hanging hood from his hoodie between your fingers.
“That's cute,” you tease. “You think you can handle me.” You toss the string, making it land across his shoulder. “Have a good day … coach.”
Walking away from him, you ignore the burning stare into your back. It's not like you'll ever see him again unless it's on the court.
Just like it needs to be.
Mavericks was exactly what you thought when you heard the words biker bar. The neon sign outside flickers like it’s on its last leg. It smells like spilled beer, engine oil, cigarette smoke that has coated the walls since the seventies, and cheap cologne trying too hard to cover up regret and probably crimes. The floor sticks no matter how many times it’s mopped. The jukebox only plays rock music. Half the stools wobble and the bathroom doors don't lock.
It is paradise for some.
It was hell for you.
It paid your rent without you having to work for your family. That was the only reason why you stayed
However, Mavericks at 1:00 AM is a special kind of purgatory.
“Hey, Billy,” you shake the big burly biker currently passed out on the counter. “Are you alive?” The bearded, tattooed man grumbles something unintelligible and you nod. “Yeah, your fine.”
“Y/N! Table four is complaining that their pitchers are flat!” A voice yells at you.
You look over your shoulder at Max, your boss. He spends most of his shifts in the back office running through the other female bartenders or "doing books," which everyone knows is code for running illegal betting.
“The beer is fine, Max,” you call back, not bothering to look up from the glass you’re drying.
“Just swap them out!” He barks, disappearing back into his office.
You sigh, grabbing two fresh pitchers. As you head toward the floor, you pass Jax, the only other bartender on duty. Jax is twenty-two, covered in poorly executed tattoos, and currently looks like he’s had about enough like you.
“Rough night?” You ask, nudging him as you pass.
“I hate it here, Y/N,” he whispers, his eyes wide. “A guy at the end of the bar just tried to pay me in collector’s coins. Like, from the late-night infomercials.”
“Did you take them?” You ask.
“I was tempted just to make him go away.” He admits.
You chuckle and keep moving. Table four is a nightmare. A group of new guys who think because they’re wearing leather vests, they think they are important here.
“Here,” you say, slamming the pitchers down. “Fresh. On the house because Max is a softie.”
“About time, Babygirl,” one of them sneers, reaching out to grab your wrist. “You were taking so long we thought you went home to bed. Want some company later?”
You twist your arm back with a practiced, sharp motion, stepping just out of his reach. Your face goes cold, something much sharper.
“The only place you’re going is onto the floor with my foot on your neck if you touch me again,” you say, your voice dropping to a dangerous level. “Don't call me Babygirl.”
The guy’s friends hoot and holler, mocking him for getting shut down, but he glares at you, muttering something under his breath about bitches with attitudes.
You walk back to the bar, your heart hammering a rhythm of pure irritation. This was your life. This was the "independence" you fought so hard for because you couldn't bring yourself to ask your family for help. However, as you look around at the peeling wallpaper and the grease-slicked counters, the stubbornness that usually keeps you upright feels heavy.
You think briefly of the school. The smell of the concessions instead of cigarettes. Nicky’s sweaty, happy grin. Even the way that Coach Min had looked at you. It made you realize just how far removed you are from your family and that world.
“Hey,” Jax says, leaning over the bar. “You okay? You look like you’re a million miles away.”
“Just thinking about basketball,” you mutter, grabbing a rag to scrub a spot on the counter that’s been there since 1994.
“Basketball?” Jax laughs. “You hate sports.”
“I do,” you say, scrubbing harder. “I really do.”
As the clock ticks toward closing time and the rowdy crowd starts to thin, leaving only the smell of bleach and rock music in your ears, you find yourself wondering if Nick’s offer for a job at the family business was really about controlling your life or if it was a life raft you were too proud to grab.
Hitting the light over the hood of your stove, the low light dimly lights your small kitchen area in your studio apartment. Reaching into your pocket, you pull out the wad of cash Max threw at you at the end of the night. Mostly crinkled ones, fives and some loose change. You're pretty sure Max is stealing from you, but you needed the job so you couldn't accuse him.
You toss your money on the counter causing the coins to fall and scatter on the floor, rolling beneath the fridge. You don't bother chasing after them. Covering your face, you drop to the floor, right along with the change.
Looking up, you look at the pictures hanging on your fridge. You and your brothers. You, Sarah and Elly. You and Nicky the night of his tenth birthday party. He was holding up a video game you bought him.
Tears well in your eyes. You hate it. It makes you feel weak. Broken. Like you're already losing.
“Get it together,” you whisper. “Get it together.”
The hood light hums softly overhead, flickering just enough to be irritating. Everything in this apartment is just slightly wrong. The crooked cabinet door. The chair that wobbles at the table.
You drag your sleeve across your face, angry when it comes away wet.
The money on the counter stares back at you. Crinkled bills. Sticky with beer and sweat from other people’s hands. Tips that were good enough to keep you afloat but never good enough to get you out. Proof that you survived another night. Proof that surviving is all your doing.
“I’m fine,” you say out loud, because saying it feels safer than admitting the truth. “You are fine.”
Your eyes drift back to the fridge to look at the pictures once more. Your brothers both had their arms around you. The three of you in matching Christmas shirts your mom made you wear. You let out a teary laugh, it was only last year. As you drift to the next one of you and their partners something catches your eye.
Caught between the counter and the fridge. Using a butter knife you slide it in between the two surfaces and unlodge the stuck object.
Another picture.
You and him.
Before.
Your stomach drops like you missed a step on the stairs and you're about to fall flat on your face. You should throw it away, rip it up, burn it, but you continue to stare at it as your fingers slightly shake.
He had his arm around your waist smiling at the camera. Something possessive in his eyes even then. Before the constant yelling and crying. Before it all escalated. You thought it was love.
“You idiot,” you whisper.
Your phone buzzes on the counter.
You flinch, knocking your elbow against the cabinet as you come out of your daze, heart slamming into your ribs at the surprise.
It’s just a text.
You don't check it.
Standing up, you open your kitchen drawer and grab your scissors. Sharp and pointy, you cut that picture up into the tiniest pieces you can manage. So tiny, you can’t even tell that material was even a photo to begin with. Unfortunately, it didn't give you any satisfaction. The memories … the nightmares …they were still there. No matter how many times you denied it. He was there in very dark corners of your nightmares waiting for you.
Your phone goes off again.
Scraping your mess into the trash, you grab your device and open your messages this time. There could only be one person texting you at two in the morning.
You stare at the screen longer than necessary.
Nick: Did you make it home?
Nick always texts like that. Not. Are you okay? Not. How was work? Just a quiet check-in that pretends not to hover.
You almost lie. Instead, you sit on the edge of the counter, feet dangling, and let yourself breathe for half a second longer than usual.
Yeah. Night was rough, but made it home. You answer, pressing the send button.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Nick: You want me to come by?
Your chest tightens. You know what will happen. Nick showing up in sweatpants, Chris pretending he was “in the neighborhood,” Elly hovering with tea you won’t drink while trying to avoid the looks they give you.
No. I’m okay. Promise. You reply.
Nick: Get some sleep, Sunshine. Door locked?
You glance at the deadbolt and jump off the counter to check it out. Twisting it once more for good measure, even though you already checked it.
Twice.
Locked. Night. Your final text says.
You toss the phone facedown on the counter. Silence settles back in your little apartment.
Too loud.
Too quiet.
Both at once.
Turning your tv on to try and drown out both, you take the world's quickest shower before throwing on Nick's hoodie that you stole from him last week. It smells like the laundry detergent Sarah uses. It smells like home. It smells safe.
When you crawl into bed, you leave the lamp on.
Just tonight.
You lie on your side, knees tucked up, staring at the wall where the paint has a hairline crack. Your brain, the traitor that it is, keeps replaying the memories you hated.
The pain of his hands.
The way he killed your confidence with his sharp tongue.
The way love warped into control so slowly you didn’t notice until you were already too consumed by it.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
Not tonight.
Not now.
You roll onto your side, pulling the hoodie sleeve over your hands, lamp still glowing softly. The fridge hums. A car passes outside. Life keeps moving like nothing inside of you just cracked open.
Tomorrow, you’ll wake up.
You’ll joke.
You’ll pretend you’re fine because that's what you are good at.
The fluorescent lights of the Forge and Frame office are a different kind of bright. They’re clean, bright, and the office smells faintly of sawdust and expensive printer ink.
You find yourself sitting at the front desk that you know like the back of your hand. Many hours you have sat on your ass behind this desk growing up pretending to help your dad when you were growing up. Eventually you would take … strike that. They would force you to take summertime jobs there during your teen years in hopes of reeling your rebelliousness in. It didn't work, and your mom wouldn't let your dad pay you very well. So, you didn't show up very often. However, the work was easy and not even you could really screw it up.
You’ve been here for four hours ‘volunteering’, and so far, you’ve answered three phone calls, successfully made a pot of coffee without burning the building down, and fought the urge to crawl under the desk for a nap at least twenty times.
“How’s it going, Sunshine?” Nick calls out from his glass-walled office, not even looking up from his blueprints.
“I forgot how boring this was,” you call back leaning back in your chair. “Who's normally here? All your permits are a mess, nothing is alphabetized. I'm so bored I'M ALPHABETIZING!”
“You’re doing great,” Elly says, walking past with a stack of files. She stops, adjusting a stray hair behind your ear. “Plus you look human. No nacho cheese, no beer spills. It’s a good look.”
“I miss my sticky floors. They didn't judge me.” You stick your tongue out at her but you actually agree with her.
The bell above the heavy glass door chimes. You straighten up instinctively, your "customer service" mask sliding into place. The one that’s a little less bitey than your bar version.
“Welcome to Forge and Frame Construction, how can I…” The words die in your throat.
It’s not a contractor. It’s not a disgruntled client. It’s Yoongi. He’s dressed nicely in a button down blue blue shirt and black pants, looking significantly more like a "functioning adult" than he did in the sweaty gymnasium. He freezes when he sees you, his hand still on the door handle.
“Y/N?” he asks, his eyebrows shooting up.
“Coach,” you manage, recovering quickly. You lean your elbows on the desk, regaining your confidence. “Let me guess. You’re here to report a foul? A loud mouthed Bearcat fan?”
Yoongi lets out a short, surprised breath. That half-laugh you’re starting to recognize. He walks toward the desk, holding onto a thick envelope.
“I’m here to deliver the final audit and the check from the fundraiser,” he says, sliding the envelope across the polished wood. “Your brother said he’d handle the distribution to the lower conference teams.”
“He’s in there,” you say, gesturing toward Nick’s office. “But he’s currently pretending to be very busy so he doesn't have to listen to me bitch.”
Yoongi doesn't move toward the office. Instead, he leans against the edge of your desk, mirroring your posture. He studies you for a second. Not the way the guys at the bar do, but with a quiet, observant intensity that makes you feel like he’s reading your soul.
“You look different,” he says.
“Is that a polite way of saying I don't look like a disaster today?” You tease. “I liked my purple shirt covered in nacho cheese splatter."
“It’s a polite way of saying you look like you actually slept,” he counters softly.
The teasing remark you had ready vanishes. You look down at the envelope, tracing the edge of the paper. The memory of a couple nights ago comes back. The cut-up photo, the lamp left on, the shaking hands, but here, in the daylight, with Yoongi looking at you like that, it feels a little further away.
“I’m trying out a new thing,” you say, looking back up with a small shrug. “It’s called ‘not being a mess for five minutes.’ It’s exhausting.”
“I imagine it is,” Yoongi says. He reaches out, his fingers hovering near the desk, close to yours but not touching. “For what it’s worth, I liked the purple shirt too.”
Before you can respond, Nick steps out of his office.
“Yoongi! Good timing,” Nick says, beaming. He looks between the two of you, his eyes narrowing slightly in that protective-brother way. “I see my sister hasn't scared you off yet.”
“Stay for a coffee?” Nick asks. “My brother and I are just about to go over the site plans for the new community center.”
Yoongi looks at Nick, then his eyes flick back to you.
“I can spare a moment.” Yoongi nods before sending you a quick smirk and walking off down the hall to Nick's office.
“I'm telling Sarah,” Elly says, head popping out of her office.
“What?” You question, whirling around to look at her. “That Yoongi brought the donations around for her husband to distribute?”
“That you were flirting again,” she smiles, knowingly.
“I did no such thing,” you deny. Elly opens her mouth, but you cut her off. “I must alphabetize, good day.”
Reaching back, you catch the edge of her door and swing it closed in her face. You can still hear her laugh. Rolling your lips between your teeth, you turn your attention back to your temporary filing cabinet.
Okay, maybe you were flirting.
Just a little.
The office door clicking shut behind Nick and Yoongi felt like a vacuum seal being broken. You slumped back into the ergonomic chair, which was far too comfortable for a person who usually spent eight hours a day on her feet dealing with asshole bosses.
"Alphabetize," you whisper to yourself. "Focus on the letters, Sunshine. P is for Professional. Which Yoongi seems to be. Q is for Quit looking at the hallway. R is for... Really? You’re doing this now?"
Twenty minutes passed. You were actually making progress on a stack of zoning permits when the heavy thud of footsteps returned. You didn't look up, keeping your eyes glued to a document about drainage pipes.
"You're holding that upside down." Yoongi says
You didn't flinch, but your grip tightened on the paper. You slowly rotated it 180 degrees. "I like a challenge, coach." You say lightly.
He's leaning against the doorframe of the hallway, his hands shoved into his pockets. Nick is nowhere to be seen.
"You're still here," he notes. “Your brother Chris thought for sure you would have made a run for it by now.”
"I’m a captive of the family business," you say, finally dropping the permit and swivel-turning the chair to face him. "They lured me in with the promise of air conditioning."
Yoongi walks toward the desk, but he doesn’t stop at the "socially acceptable for a stranger" distance. He comes right up to the counter, leaning over it.
"So, what do you do when you're not volunteering your time for your family," he asks, his voice dropping into that low, quiet register that made your skin tingle.
Your smirk deviously before looking at him seriously.
"I give out handies at the sketchy massage parlour off the highway," you joke with a straight face.
Catching him off guard, he chokes on his spit and coughs into his fist. Laughing, you lean back in your chair and slap your desk.
“I'm sorry I couldn't resist. You walked right into that one,” you say.
His face is a light shade of pink by the time he's done coughing. He takes a breath and points a finger at you.
“You are a menace,” he says.
“I'm a delight,” you laugh. “You should have seen your face. It was priceless.”
Yoongi shakes his head, but he’s grinning now, a gummy, genuine smile that reaches his eyes and stays there. He looks down at the desk, then back at you, his gaze lingering on your laughing face with an intensity that makes your own breath hitch for a completely different reason.
“I have to get to practice,” he says almost regrettably.
“Have fun. Go blow your whistle,” you have your hand, shooing him away.
“You know,” he says, walking toward the door. “I think you're jealous of my whistle.”
"Get out!" you laugh, grabbing a stress ball from the desk and threatening to throw it.
He slips out the door, the bell chiming after him. You sit there for a long moment, the stress ball still in your hand, watching his car pull out of the lot.
The door to Elly's office creaks open just an inch.
"Is he gone?" she whispers.
"Alphabetize, Elly!" you shout, slamming the stress ball onto the desk. "I'm alphabetizing!"
"You're blushing!" she sings out from behind the door.
You ignor her, grabbing a folder for a guy named Zimmerman and aggressively filing it under A.
“This is utter bullshit,” you look down at your boss as you shake your schedule in your hand. “We talked about this. You said you would work with me so I could go to my nephews games.”
“You're not the only one who wants Saturday afternoons off,” he says, not even looking at you.
“It's not forever,” you argue.
“Either work it or you know where the door is,” he mumbles.
Stomping out of his office, you slam the door causing some of the patrons to look at you. You didn't care. You could go a round or two with your boss. You could go a round or two with your co-workers. However, now, you had to go a round with the last person you wanted to go a round with.
Your mother.
You were screwed.
“I need to practice my Jumpshot more,” Nicky says while shoving mashed potatoes in his mouth.
“You need to listen to me when I correct you,” your brother tells him.
“You get to …. ‘dad’ with him,” Chris says to your shared older brother. “You need to stay a coach.”
“Did you hear Coach Min when he said I could be unstoppable?” Nicky asks, smiling. “I'm going to start practicing harder.”
“You practice hard enough,” Sarah sighs. “I'm afraid you're going to push yourself too hard.”
“You need to focus on your balance,” Nick tells his son.
“I can't come to Saturday's game,” you blurt out, causing everyone to stop talking.
”Excuse me,” your mom says as she places her silverware down. “Why?”
“I have to work,” you say.
“I thought you had the afternoons off?” Your dad inquires.
“I did.” You nod. “Until I didn't. I'm sorry, Nicks. You know I want to come and watch you play.”
“It's okay,” he shrugs, but you can see the disappointment flash across his face. “The refs will probably be happy they will get a week away from you.”
“You know this wouldn't have happened if you would just take the job your brother is offering you,” your mom mutters.
“Drop it,” your father says, going back to his plate.
“Why?” Your mom sighs. “She always has to be so stubborn. Y/N, you are being offered an opportunity on a silver platter to get yourself out of a crappy situation. Why won't you take it?”
“Why don't we talk about this at another time?” Elly laughs nervously.
“Because she doesn't come over any other time,” she answers.
“Mom,” Nick says. “The job is between me and my sister.” Your mother actually looks shocked at that. “She will take the job when she is ready.”
For a moment, it looks like your mother might argue. Her lips part, then press together. She exhales through her nose and reaches for her water instead.
“Well,” she mutters. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I know,” Nick says evenly. “But helping doesn’t always mean pushing.”
Silence follows.The kind that always shows up at family dinners when something real slips out.
You stare down at your plate, nudging peas around with your fork. Your chest feels tight, like you forgot how to take a full breath.
“So,” Chris says, far too cheerfully. “Who’s taking Nicky to practice tomorrow?”
“I am,” Sarah answers immediately, shooting her son a look. “No basketball talk in the car.”
“That’s not fair.” Nicky groans.
“You can talk basketball with your dad,” she smiles sweetly, patting Nicky’s arm.
Nick chuckles, tension easing just a notch. Your dad nods along, grateful for the subject change. Elly visibly relaxes.Your mom isn’t done though. She never is.
She turns to you, her tone softer this time. Which somehow makes it worse.
“We just worry about you, Y/N,” she says. “I sometimes lose sleep over you working there.”
“I know,” you say quietly.
“You work late hours,” she continues. “That bar is dangerous. You’re around dangerous men.”
“Mom.” Nick’s jaw tightens.
“No,” you say, lifting a hand. Your voice stays steady, which surprises even you. “She’s not wrong.”
Everyone looks at you now.
“I know the bar isn’t ideal,” you continue. “I know you all think I’m one bad night away from ruining my life.” Your mother’s eyes soften, guilt flickering there, but you don’t stop. “I just need to make choices on my own time,” you say.
Your mom looks like she might protest again, but your dad places a hand over hers, shaking his head just once.
“Well, we can still get ice cream when you get out of work right?” Nicky asks.
Your throat tightens.
“I don’t know yet,” you admit, meeting his eyes. “But I’ll try.”
“That’s good enough,” he shrugs, already back to his mashed potatoes like the table didn’t just emotionally implode.
Dinner limps on after that. Not tense, exactly, but not comfortable either. Plates get cleared. Elly stacks dishes. Your dad flips on the TV. Chris helps Nicky with homework at the counter.
You grab your jacket.
“Already?” Sarah asks softly.
“Yeah,” you say. “Early shift tomorrow. The girls closing tonight never clean.”
Nick walks you to the door anyway. He always does.
“You okay?” he asks once you’re out of earshot.
“Define okay.” You shrug.
“You handled that well.” He smiles faintly.
“I didn’t throw anything,” you reply.
“You know,” Nicky says, quietly. “You don't have to drown trying to prove you can swim by yourself.”
“I know.” You swallow.
He pulls you into a quick hug before you can dodge it.
“Text me when you get home.” He tells you, making you nod.
“I always do.” You continue to nod.
Outside, the air is warm and quiet. You sit in your car for a moment before starting it, forehead resting against the steering wheel.
“Get it together,” you mutter.
You start your car and back out of the driveway. Your brother's words repeating in your head. You're not drowning. Your head is above the water and that's enough for you.
The Bearcats won.
Your tips sucked for the most part for working the day shift.
Nicky got his ice cream.
Now, you find yourself situated at a table across from some guy at a trendy bar you've never been to before. You’ve only met tonight after matching with him on one of those shitty dating apps. You hated those apps. However, it was easier finding a one night stand there than dealing with the dates your siblings try to set you up with. It was awkward having to explain you were only looking for sex when the dates actually try to get to know you.
You didn't do emotional attachments.
Not anymore.
Your eyes slightly narrow at Jinho as your finger circles around the rim of your empty glass.
He was shorter than what his profile said.
Not that his height mattered, but him being a liar did. You sigh internally and rest your chin on the palm of your hand as you place your elbow on the table. He hasn't stopped talking in the last ten minutes and you tuned him out eight minutes ago. You also watched him, checking himself out in the reflection of the window every couple minutes.
Nope.
This was not working tonight.
Jinho leans back in his chair like he’s settling in for the long haul, one arm draped over the backrest, confidence oozing where it really shouldn’t.
“So,” he says, lowering his voice. “We could skip the rest of this and head back to my place.”
You finally look up from your empty glass. There’s a look in his eyes that tells you he’s already decided this ends one way.
You smile.
“Can I ask you something?” you say.
“Sure,” he grins. “Anything.”
“When a woman tells you exactly what she wants, do you listen… or do you get weird about it?” You ask.
“I know what I’m doing.” He laughs.
“That wasn’t the question,” you reply.
“I don’t really need instructions.” His smile tightens and you nod like you were expecting that.
“Okay,” you say.
He leans in, still thinking he’s winning.
“How do you handle being outmatched?” You ask.
“Outmatched how?” He scoffs.
You glance him over, slow and deliberate, then meet his eyes again.
“Experience,” you say calmly. “Patience …. Stamina.”
He blinks at you and you think you hear laughing nearby.
“Are you implying I couldn’t handle you?” His face hardens and you shrug.
“I’m saying you talk like a man who thinks confidence is the same thing as skill.” You look at him seriously.
“That’s rude,” he snaps.
“No,” you say softly. “That’s honest. I'd rather not waste five minutes of my life in some dude's bed pretending to stroke his ego because thinks he found the right spot.”
“Whatever. You’re not even that…, ” He scoffs, shoving his chair back.
“...interested?” you finish. “Correct.”
He mutters something under his breath and storms off toward the exit, ego in pieces.
You exhale, lifting your glass to your lips forgetting that it was empty. Standing you make your way to the bar and throw yourself on a stool. You think you were done with these dating app dudes.
“That was brutal.”
You freeze before slowly turning to the familiar gravelly voice. Yoongi is standing right there. One hand shoved in his black leather jacket and one hand wrapped around an empty low ball glass. He looked good tonight. Even if all he was wearing was just jeans and a white shirt underneath his jacket. It made you feel way overdressed in your tight lacey black dress.
“How much did you hear?” You ask.
“Everything. My friends and I were highly amused. I think you traumatized him.” He chuckles.
“He’ll recover,” You lift your empty glass, unimpressed.
“You didn’t even blink,” he comments. “You just went for it.”
“I blinked,” you say sweetly. “Internally.”
He hums, amused, then reaches past you to flag the bartender. The movement cages you in for half a second.
“Two,” he says. “Whatever she was drinking.”
“You buying?” You smirk.
“Did he?” He nods to the empty glass in front of you and you shake your head no. “He couldn't even do that right.”
The bartender slides the drinks over in exchange for Yoongi's card. Yoongi takes one, then doesn’t move away. Instead, he hooks a finger under the leg of the empty stool beside you and drags it closer with his foot.
“Mind?” he asks, already sitting.
“Bold,” you murmur. “You always invite yourself into dangerous situations?”
“Only when I’m curious.” He replies.
He turns fully toward you now. One elbow on the bar and his knees almost brushing up against you.
“They say curiosity killed the cat,” you comment while taking a drink.
“You do that on purpose,” he says.
“Do what?” You ask, looking confused.
“Look like you don’t care,” he replies. “Right before you strike.”
“Careful, Coach,” You laugh softly.
“I'm just making an observation,” he comments.
You take a slow sip of your drink, eyes never leaving his.
“What exactly are you observing right now?” You ask.
His gaze drops, lingering at your mouth.
“That you’re not running away from me,” he says.
“Maybe I’m just resting,” you counter before running a hand over your dress. “Besides, it took me forever to get this dolled up so why waste the effort.”
“Maybe,” he agrees. “But your body’s been leaning toward me.”
You glance down, realize he’s right. You have started to lean towards him and you don’t even try to move.
“Are you always this cocky?” You ask.
“No,” he says quietly. “Only when I’m interested.”
His words settle between you, heavy. You turn on the stool, your knee brushing his. Sending that static, electric feeling through you once again.
“You realize,” you say lightly, “I just scared a man off less than five minutes ago.”
“I’m not underestimating you.” He smiles into his drink. “I watched you dismantle him with three sentences and a smile,” he says. “I’m not stupid.”
“And yet you sat down anyway.” You lean closer, lowering your voice.
“I think you had me intrigued when you yelled at me about my hair,” His voice seemingly drops an octave as he meets your leaning form.
The two of you hovering inches from each other. The music shifts to something low, and pulsing, making the bar feel smaller.
You circle your finger around the rim of your glass once again.
“So what now?” He asks.
You smile.
“We finish our drinks,” you say. “Then I get to see just how good YOUR stamina is.”
He lets out a quiet laugh. Genuine, a little rough. You hate to admit you like it.
“Challenge accepted … Doll,” he says.
He twists to look back from where you both came from. You're assuming to check on his friends. As he does, his hand brushes your thigh. It’s barely there, like an accident that definitely isn’t. You don’t move it away.
Instead, you lean in and murmur near his ear,
“Careful, Yoongi.” Your lips brush against his ear lobe.
His breath hitches.
“I bite.” You whisper.
His answering smile is all teeth.
Gummy and beautiful.
And you were going to wear it out.
You've had many men in your apartment. Some more than once, but you had strict rules for yourself. One wrong move that you didn't like. They had to go. If they didn't like that. You had Chris's old hockey stick nearby for help. If they got too mushy and lovey dovey. They had to go. You never, ever let them stay the night. They get a five minute recovery period before you throw their clothes at them and tell them thanks for the good time. You mean it, most of the time. Catching feelings will make you vulnerable and can't afford to be vulnerable again.
You learned that number one rule the hard way.
You learned that when your baby brother found you on the floor face down in your apartment. When those once loving and tender hands from the cut up picture tried to hurt you beyond repair. Your rules protect you and your heart.
You open the door and cool air spills out from the running a/c. You step inside first, dropping your purse onto the floor and kick off your heels.
He hasn’t moved from the doorway yet.
You raise an eyebrow.
“Well?” You ask.
Yoongi’s eyes roam over your space. Not in a judgy way, but almost as if he was taking in small details about you.
“Did you want to … talk for a bit … first?” he asks.
You lean against the wall, arms crossing loosely over your chest. Defensive posture disguised as attitude. Shit. He was a gentleman. Sure, you've had … nice guys before, but gentlemen made you kind of nervous.
“Sure, ground rules,” you say casually. “I don’t do clingy. I don’t do overnight guests. If you pull some weird macho nonsense, you’re out the door faster than you can blow your whistle."
A corner of his mouth lifts. Not smug. Amused.
“Okay,” he says, finally stepping in and shutting the door behind him. “You call the shots. I'm at your mercy.”
That gives you pause.
“You think I’m lying?” You tilt your head.
“No,” he says. “I think you mean it.”
He shrugs out of his jacket and folds it over his arm like he’s waiting for instructions .
“And?” You prompt.
“I’m smart enough not to test you,” he adds, mouth twitching like he knows exactly how close he’s skating to trouble.
You watch him for a second longer than necessary, arms crossed loosely over your chest.
“Good,” you say. “Because I don’t bluff.”
“I believe you,” he replies easily.
You step closer. Not touching yet, just enough to feel the shift in the air. His attention locks onto you, but he doesn’t move first. He doesn't assume that he can put his hands on you yet. You close the distance another inch, then stop. Close enough that you can see the faint crease between his brows, like he’s deep in thought.
“You’re very polite for a guy who followed me home,” you say.
“You invited me.” He laughs.
“True, most men would’ve… tested the waters by now,” you inform him.
“I’m not most men,” he replies.
The air between you feels charged, stretched thin like a wire pulled too tight. You uncross your arms slowly, deliberately, letting them fall to your sides.
“Okay,” you say. “Then here’s another rule.”
“I’m listening.” He straightens slightly.
“You don’t get to be mysterious and observant without answering questions.” You step past him, forcing him to turn if he wants to keep you in his line of sight. “Fair’s fair.”
“Ask.” He gently urges.
“Why didn’t you push?” you ask. “Back at the bar. Or just now.”
“You didn’t want me to,” he says simply. “Because I didn't want to.”
That lands harder than you expect. You feel it in your chest, low and warm.
You tilt your head again, studying him.
“Careful,” you murmur. “You’re going to make me forget what I’m used to.”
His smile softens instead of sharpening, like he understands exactly what you mean.
“Then we can take it slow,” he says. “No rush. No pressure.”
The way he says it like it’s obvious. Like it's the most natural thing in the world. Something in your chest tightens. The same thing you shoved away a long time ago so it wouldn't get hurt again. You had to hurry and change the direction of this conversation.
“Last chance to change your mind,” you say, taking his jacket from him and draping it over your chair. “Still want in?”
Yoongi doesn’t rush his answer. He just nods once.
“Yeah,” he says. “I do. Are you sure you do?”
You swallow thickly.
Turning on your heel, you grab his hand and gently pull him. Your first real deliberate skin on skin contact. Your hand fits perfectly in his and you hate that you notice this. You notice the warmth of his skin. The gentle way his free hand holds your hip as you lead him just past the sofa and around the tall bookcase where your bed was hiding.
You don't know why, but you keep repeating your rules in your head. Something tells you one of them is going to get broken tonight and you can't let that happen.
Your bare chests were pressing up against one another as your tongues curl together. That tight lacy dress was bunched up around your waist as you straddle his hips. Those gentle hands of his, still remain gentle. They didn't grab at your body desperately like you expected or like you were used to. They remain on the material of your dress. Almost like he was afraid to actually touch you.
Maybe he was actually serious about you being in charge and him following because honestly…. you were kind of bluffing. You laugh a little into the kiss as you pull away. Yoongi looks up at you in a slight daze.
“You hanging in there?” You tease and he nods. “You must really love the feel of my dress.”
“I just don't want to touch you if you don't want me too,” he says, sincerely.
You blink down at him.
“Are you sure?” You smirk. “Or … are you having a hard time keeping up like your buddy from the bar?”
With a slight growl from deep within his chest, Yoongi flips the two of you over. Landing on your back with his lips on yours, his hands tug your dress down your legs as his lips trail of wet kisses down your jaw to your ear.
“I haven't even shown you anything yet,” he whispers.
“What are you waiting for,” you groan out when his hips rub against you.
“Why are you in such a rush?” He chuckles, moving up to his knees to undo his belt. “I thought you were looking for someone with … patience?”
“I think you and I both know we have been flirting since that damn fundraiser,” you admit. “My patience has had it.”
“Have we?” He smirks, kicking his pants off and you bite your tongue. His long fingers come down. Teasingly, they dance along your outer thighs until they grab the thin material that you can barely call underwear. “I'm glad we're on the same page then.”
The black undergarment is gone before you know it as he buries his head between your thighs. You want to have a witty comeback. To have the last word but damn he was precise with his tongue.
You’re going to let him have this win.
“Ffffuuu,” you try to get out as you let your hand wander into the hair you once insulted, holding him in place.
Moaning in response, Yoongi wraps his hands around your thighs, bringing you closer to him. Watching him, his eyes were glued to your face watching your reactions. Watching the way you tucked your lip between your teeth. Watching the way your breathing was starting to pick up with the rise and fall of your chest. Watching how your head dips back into your pillows as your hips rock into his face.
Your fingers tighten in Yoongi's hair, pulling him closer as his tongue laps at your clit, circling it before thrusting into your core. His mouth's heat makes your thighs shake. He hums, vibrating against you, and your back arches with a gasp.
"Yoongi,” you moan, rocking your hips into his face harder. His eyes lock on yours, still watching every reaction. One hand grips your thigh.The other reaches up to gently pinch your nipple. You clench at the sensations.
He growls and licks your folds before focusing on your clit. Your breaths quicken. Two fingers slide into you, curling inside, and you shatter.
Crying out, your thighs squeeze his head. He pumps his fingers and continues to lick until you're spent.
You tug his hair to lift his head. His lips shine with your arousal, eyes full blown with need.
“Well,” you pant, pushing him onto the pillows. Your hand trails down his chest to the hardness in his boxers. You palm it, feeling it twitch under your palm. “I'll admit. I kind of underestimated you and your clipboard.”
“It keeps me organized,” he says, sounding breathless himself.
“I bet it does,” you chuckle and pull him out of his boxers, letting your breath ghost over the soft skin of his erection. “I'm not very organized.”
“I could help with that,” he sighs.
“Remember, I bite,” you tease and take him into your mouth.
“Holy shit,” he swears, feeling you work on taking him deep into your throat.
Your lips stretch around him, sliding down inch by inch until your nose brushes against his pubic bone. Yoongi's hips buck slightly, but he catches himself, hands fisting the sheets instead of grabbing your head.
A first for you.
"Fuck," he mutters, voice straining, his chest heaving with each breath.
You pull back slowly, letting your tongue swirl around the swollen head, teasing the sensitive underside before taking him deep again. His thighs tense under your hands, as you bob your head, setting an unhurried rhythm. “You might want to stop soon.”
You hum in acknowledgment, the sound sending another jolt through him, but you ease off, popping him free from your mouth with a slick sound.
"Do you need a minute?" You ask with a wicked grin, climbing back up his body until you're straddling his hips again.
His hands settle on your waist, thumbs brushing your skin in gentle circles. Still so careful, like he's savoring every moment. You reach over into your night nightstand and grab your trusty box hiding your condoms. Grabbing one, you drop it onto his chest.
"You sure?" he asks, and makes your damn stomach do those damn things you hate.
"Absolutly," you reply.
Yoongi rips the small foil packet open and wastes no time in putting it on. You reach down to guide him to your entrance. You're still slick from his earlier attentions, and the head of his cock nudges against your folds, parting them easily. Sinking down slowly, inch by inch, a shared gasp escapes you both as you bottom out. Yoongi's head falls back against the pillows, a deep moan rumbling from his chest.
"You feel incredible," he breathes.
You start to move, rolling your hips in a slow grind that has his cock dragging against your inner walls, hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. His eyes lock on yours, intense and, pulling you in deeper than you expected. There's something there in his gaze. A warmth and maybe even understanding. It twists uncomfortably in your chest. You don't want this, don't want to feel that pull, that stupid connection forming.
Sure your little flirty moments were… fun. However, this felt like something else entirely. It felt more than that little rattle of the cold, frozen, and buried heart of yours. It felt like it wanted to fucking break free.
"You like this?" you ask, breathlessly, trying to shatter the moment as you pick up the pace, lifting and dropping, taking him deeper with each thrust. Your hands brace on his chest, nails digging into his skin just enough to leave faint marks, but his stare doesn't waver.
He nods, biting his lip to stifle another groan. He surges up to capture your mouth in a messy kiss. Tongues tangle as his hips begin to meet yours, the slap of skin on skin growing louder, more urgent. However, when he pulls back slightly, his eyes meet yours again. That unwelcome spark ignites further. Panic floods through you. You can't let this go beyond the physical, can't let his gentleness seep in and make you feel vulnerable.
Without a word, you push him back down firmly, breaking eye contact as you twist your body.
"Turn over," you command.
Sliding off him, he complies without question, rolling onto his side, then pushing up onto his knees. You wait for him to get into position behind you. Your chest to his back. This way, you don't have to face him. You don't have to see that look in his eyes.
You fall to your hands and sink back onto his length, your ass pressing against his pelvis as you take him deep once more. The angle has him hitting a new spot inside that makes you gasp, but it's safer … detached. Your hands grip the sheets in front of you, and you rock back hard, setting a rhythm that focuses on the sensation only.
Yoongi groans, low and deep, his hands finding your hips tentatively, as he thrusts forward to match your pace.
"Fuck... yeah," he pants, head and body dropping forward, his breath hot against your shoulder blades.
The connection feels fractured now, just bodies moving in sync, no lingering gazes to complicate it. Just two people who met in a bar that came back to your place. Heat coils tighter in your core, as you grind back against him, chasing release without all the emotion attached to it.
"Harder," you demand.
He obeys, snapping his hips forward with more force. His cock plunges deep enough to make your walls pulsate. The room fills with the obscene sounds of your activities. Wet smacks, heavy breaths, and muffled moans. His fingers dig in just a bit, holding you steady as the tension peaks.
It crashes over you suddenly, your core clamping down around him as waves of pleasure crash around you. A sharp cry escaping your lips. Yoongi follows right after, burying himself into you with a shuddering thrust and a strained curse. His body trembles against yours, but you keep your face buried in your bed, breathing through the aftershocks until he stills.
You pull away first, collapsing onto the bed, careful not to meet his eyes as you catch your breath. You can feel the bed shift as he lies beside you trying to catch his own breath. The warmth of his body radiating over to you makes your eyelids feel extra heavy.
He has five minutes per your rules.
“Is kissing you … breaking your rules right now?” He asks softly.
You think for a moment. It probably does land under the lovely dovey rule.
Maybe.
“I don't think so,” you say, turning your head to look at him.
“Can I kiss you?” He questions.
God damn this man.
“Yes,” you whisper.
Rolling partially on top of you, Yoongi takes your lips in a gentle kiss. Not a passionate, urgent, wanting a round two type of kiss. No, it was soft … such a soft kiss.
“I'll get going,” he says, pulling away and sitting on the edge of the bed to reach for his discarded clothes.
“Wait!” You exclaim sitting up slightly. The word slips out of your mouth before you could really think about it. He looks over his shoulder at you, freezing in his movements. Blinking at him, you lick your lips and blink some more. “You … you don't … have to go.”
“What about your no overnight guests rule?” He asks with a raised eyebrow.
You shrug lying back down, eyes drifting to the ceiling instead of him. The moment stretches as you turn to your side facing away from him.
“Rules are meant to be broken,” you say lightly.
Yoongi doesn't move.
“So… stay or go,” he says, looking for clarification.
“Mm.” You shift, pulling the blanket up your body. “Up to you. Lock the door on your way out if you leave.”
Silence.
The bed dips and mattress shifts again as he settles back beside you, careful but not unsure. You don’t look at him. You don’t invite him closer.
“You’re terrible,” he murmurs, more amused than accusing.
You hum at that.
A second passes and his arm comes around you. This time, you do notice a slight hesitation. Almost like you'll yell at him for getting too mushy with you. Under normal circumstances you would. However, you'll let it pass this time.
“If you change your mind,” he says quietly, “I’ll go.”
You don’t answer. You just adjust slightly, enough that your back rests against his chest. That’s all the confirmation he gets. He exhales, long and slow, and settles in.
The door stays locked for the rest of the night.
“You remind me of my late wife, Y/N,” Joe, one of your regulars says.
“Why is that?” You ask, leaning on the bar.
“She was beautiful, funny, smart and tired too,” he says and takes a sip of his beer.
“What happened to her?” You question, scrubbing at that same damn spot that you know won't ever come up off the bartop.
“She got sick,” he tells you. “We found out too late. Miss her every damn day.”
“I'm sorry,” you say.
“You need to get out here, Girly-girl,” he shakes his head at you.
“And go where?” You laugh.
“Anywhere that isn't underneath these neon lights,” he tells you. “You're young. Get out of here. Fall in love. Go see the world before life sneaks up on you.” You look at the older man that time dealt a bad hand to. Dead wife, missing teeth, aged skin and you're sure he's younger than what he looks. “But what do I know? I'm just an old drunk.”
Your fingers drum against the old bartop anxiously.
“Six shots of Tequila, Y/N,” Billy, who was much more alert this time says, slamming some bills on the bar.
“Yeah,” you nod, taking the cash. “Coming right up.”
You turn and line up six shot glasses before grabbing the bottle of tequila. In the background a glass breaks and a group of men laugh. You sigh. You quickly pour the shots and hand them to Billy.
Walking into the back you grab the broom and lean against the wall for a moment. You don't know what's wrong with you. You don't know why you can't leave but damn it … damn it you want to leave.
Maybe one day you'll stop struggling to swim and reach for Nick's hand. However, for now, you'll sweep up this broken glass. Then, you'll go back behind the bar and keep on swimming. No matter how many times your head dips below the surface. You'll keep on swimming.
Slamming your car door shut, you jog up the step to Nick and Sarah's house. Opening the door, immediately the smell of roast hit you, making your mouth water. Smiling, you walk into the kitchen to find your sister-in-law cooking something on the stove.
“You didn't have to cook special for me,” you tease. “I would have changed.”
You look down at yourself in your tight Mavericks tank top and too short of shorts.
“You're so cute,” she smiles at you. “You must have missed our guest in the backyard.”
Knitting your eyebrows together, you lean off to the side and look out the backdoor. You see your brother standing out there. You see Nicky standing in the ‘designated’ basketball area and before you can call Sarah crazy.
You see him.
With wide eyes, you watch Yoongi come up to Nicky and adjust his hands. Everything from a week ago comes rushing back to you. The way his hands felt on you. The way he smelled. The way his warmth curled around you while you slept. The way you have tossed and turned since that night.
“Fuck!” You hiss and drop down behind the counter.
“What?” Sarah laughs, looking at you.
“Why. Is. He. Here?” You ask, peeking around the corner. Nicky is intently listening to him talk.
“What in the hell is wrong with you?” She questions. You don't answer her. Instead, you give her the blankest stare you can muster. “Oh my god.”
“Stop,” you say, waddling away from the view of the door and windows.
“When did this happen?” She asks, shoving a head of lettuce at you. “Chop.”
“Last week,” you admit, grabbing a knife. “I need to go before he sees me.”
“I don't think so,” she says. “You're staying for dinner.”
“Look at how I’m dressed,” you tell her, stabbing the lettuce a little too hard.
“I think he's seen you in less,” she laughs and you roll your eyes.
You toss the cut leafy vegetable into a bowl as she rolls a cucumber to you.
“I just … I don't want him to know where I work,” you say quietly, chopping the ends off the cucumber.
“Why?” She asks, putting her wooden spoon down.
“It's so stupid,” you say. “When he came into the office. He was dressed nicely. Like a button down and dress pants. He probably wears a tie too. Look at me, my tank top is too tight to make my boobs look bigger and my ass practically hangs out of these shorts if I bend over so I can get more tips.”
“You really do like him,” she says, all teasing gone from her voice.
“No,” you shake your head. “I'm saying he needs to run from me.”
“I'm going to pull my big sister card on you,” she says. “I think you're scared. I think you're scared that he will stay. This isn't about your shorts. This is about trusting someone again because last time you trusted someone that was supposed to love you...”
“Yeah, I was stupid,” you snap.
“You're human,” she argues. “You deserve to be loved, Sunshine. If you continue to keep yourself so guarded you're going to miss something so special. Not all men are monsters. Look at your brothers, your dad. They are amazing men. You don't have to let Yoongi … or anyone in all at once. Let them in a little bit at a time.”
“What if …,” you blink and grip the handle on your knife a little too hard making your knuckles turn white.
“We'll be watching this time,” she whispers. “Me, Nick, Elly. You know … Chrissi, he told us he wished he would have showed up to your place sooner that night. He feels guilty thinking he could have stopped what happened. He more than anyone will make damn sure nothing will happen to you again.”
“Don't tell Nick about this,” you whisper.
“I promise,” she nods.
“My jumpshot is getting better!” Nicky exclaims bursting through the back door. You quickly change your expression and go back to the cucumber. “Just wait until I master it and we move on to the Alley-oop.”
“I think you're a ways away from that, son,” Nick laughs.
“I like that spirit though,” Yoongi chuckles with your brother.
“Sunshine, will you watch me later?” Nicky asks. “What are you doing?”
“Of course,” you smile at him. “Cutting the veggies for the salad.”
“Don't eat the salad, coach,” your nephew teases.
“Very funny,” you scowl at the boy.
“Go wash up,” your sister-in-law laughs. Nicky scampers off through the kitchen and runs upstairs with thumping footsteps. “Is his jumpshot really getting better?”
“Yeah,” your brother sighs. “Turns out. He just doesn't want to listen to me.”
“You never listened to dad either, did you?” You ask tilting your head at your brother. “Funny how that works out.”
“Do you have a sister?” Nick asks Yoongi.
“I do not,” Yoongi answers.
“You're lucky,” Nick teases and you flip him off.
“Both of you stop it,” Sarah sighs. “You two wash up as well. Sunshine and I will get everything to the table.”
Nick waves Yoongi over to the sink. Yoongi passes behind you, lightly brushing against your back as he passes. You freeze for a moment before finishing the salad and following Sarah to the table.
You picked the wrong day to come over. This dinner needs to get over fast so you can watch Nicky and bolt.
Fast.
“My assistant Coach Jungkook and I have been watching The Bearcats for awhile now,” Yoongi says as he sits across from you at the table. “Your stats are pretty amazing. We were excited to be able to play you finally.”
“My boys work pretty hard,” Nick says and you yawn. “I really only do it for Nicky though. If he was going to play I was going to make sure it wasn’t going to be on a mediocre team.”
“He's talented,” Yoongi says. “I think I spent more time watching him than my own team at our game. He could be a real leader on The Ravens.”
“Are you trying to poach my star player?” Nick laughs.
“Yes,” Yoongi says. “Think about it. We get Nicky on my team next season. You get to be a dad in the stands and I get to do all the hard work.”
“The high school in that area is a D-2 school,” Nick says, leaning back in his chair.
“We are not moving,” Sarah sighs.
“Babe, the President of our Basketball League wants our son on his team …” Nick says and you sit up suddenly alert.
“You're the President?” You ask.
“You didn't know that?” Yoongi asks and you shake your head.
“She just shows up when she needs to and yells,” Nick says, waving you off. “Nicky could get great opportunities over there.”
“I love our home,” she says. “Nicky would have to make all new friends. Learn a whole new school.”
“Sarah,” Nick tries and you stand up.
“You know what?” You laugh awkwardly. “I'm grabbing your kid so he can show me the jump thing. NICKY LET'S GO!” Yoongi stands up with you and quickly follows you out the back door to wait for Nicky. “Look at what you did?”
“I didn't mean for them to get into an argument, but Nicky is really talented,” Yoongi stresses.
“Of course he is,” you roll your eyes. “I mean … look at me.”
“I am looking at you,” he says as the door opens and Nicky runs past the two of you with his ball.
“Sit and watch,” Nicky instructs.
You have a seat at the picnic table off to the side in the grass. You lean so your back is resting against the top edge. Yoongi sits next to you. His leg brushes up against yours.
“So,” he says to you, but his eyes remain focused on Nicky. “Do you work at Mavericks or do you hang out there a lot?”
“I bartend there,” you answer, pulling at your top a bit.
“Isn't that place … dangerous?” He asks.
“Yes, mother,” you joke.
"You're avoiding looking at me," he said, his voice dropping below the sound of the ball hitting the pavement.
"I'm watching the talent," you retort, nodding toward your nephew. "Besides, I'm still processing the fact that you’re the 'League President.' You neglected to mention that during our... rule-breaking. Is that why you slept with me? You think I'm an easy in to get Nicky on your team?"
"Absolutly not," he scoffs, finally turning his head. His eyes sweeping over you, lingering for a fraction of a second on the Mavericks tank top before meeting your gaze with unnerving steadiness. "And for the record? I don't care where you work. I just know it's dangerous.”
"I can handle myself, Yoongi." You say.
"I know you can," he said softly, leaning in just enough that you could catch his scent again. The one that had lingered your pillows for a week. "But that doesn't mean I have to like the idea of you being there."
You felt that familiar panic rising. The urge to snap, to push him away before he could get any closer. Sarah’s words echoed in your head. You’re scared that he will stay. Your hands nervously grab tightly at your clothes.
"Don't get all protective," you huff, though your heart wasn't in it. "We had one night. Rules were broken. That's it, right?"
Yoongi let out a short, dry laugh and finally looked back at Nicky, who just sank a clean basket. You cheer for him and clap your hands.
"Is that what you're telling yourself?" He asks. "Because if that’s it, you wouldn't be sitting here with your knuckles white as you clutch your top."
Nicky cheers, running over to high-five Yoongi. The tension breaks, but the underlying heat remains. As the sun began to dip below the fence line, you realized that keeping him out was going to be a lot harder than you anticipated. Especially when he seems perfectly comfortable sitting right in the middle of your life.
The bass from the jukebox was rattling the liquor bottles on the back shelf. Mavericks was in full swing tonight. Sticky floors, the smell of stale beer, and the low-level tension of a room where a fight could break out over a misunderstood look.
"Check out the three o’clock," your coworker, Maya, nudges you with her elbow while she caps a bottle of whiskey. "I think we have three lost puppies."
You look over from where you were pouring drinks to see Yoongi. He was standing near the entrance, flanked by two men who looked equally out of place. One you clock as his assistant coach and the other was taller than both looking like he had a board meeting to attend.
"They’re definitely lost," you mutter, putting your bottle of rum away. "And they should probably find their way out before someone decides their shoes are too clean."
"I'll take them if you don't want them. Especially the one in the middle." Maya grins.
"He's mine. I mean … I know him," you correct yourself quickly, feeling the heat creep up your neck.
Yoongi’s eyes lock onto yours across the crowded room. He didn't wave. He just started weaving through the crowd, his friends following like security detail. When they reach the bar, the guys on the stools nearby shift uncomfortably.
"This place is even charming in person," the assistant coach, Jungkook if you remember correctly, says, looking at a neon beer sign that was flickering rhythmically.
"It’s a dive, Kook. Stay focused," Yoongi murmurs. He leans his forearms against the sticky wood of the bar, eyes scanning your face, then moving down to the low cut top and short skirt you were wearing.
"Can I help you, Mr. President?" you ask, leaning in with a sweet smile that didn't reach your eyes. "Or are you just here to inspect the local health hazards? You might want your clipboard for that."
"I wanted to talk to you," Yoongi says, ignoring your sass and looks around quickly before whispering. "You realize they are doing drugs in the corner, right?"
"It's a normal Tuesday," you retort, popping the cap off a beer for a regular without looking. "You guys stick out like sore thumbs. If you’re looking for a craft cocktail, keep walking three blocks north."
"We're fine with whatever's cold," the other friend said, leaning in. "I'm Namjoon. We’ve heard... interesting things."
”And I'm Jungkook,” the assistant coach says. “Yoongi was scared to come here alone.”
“They can leave,” Yoongi glares at his friend. “I'll stay for one.”
"One what? One lecture? One judgmental sigh?" You set a coaster down in front of him with a bit more force than necessary.
"I wanted your number," Yoongi says bluntly.
You pause, your hand still on the coaster.
"You have my brother’s phone number. You have his address. You were literally just at his house," you say looking at him confused. “Why did you come here?”
"I’m not asking Nick for his sister’s number," Yoongi says, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly tone that made your pulse skip. "I’m asking you."
"And if I say no?" You challenge, crossing your arms. "Are you going to use your executive powers to ban me from the bleachers?"
"No," Yoongi leans closer, the scent of his cologne cutting through the bar's musk. "I'll just come back tomorrow. And the day after. Until you break the rules for me again."
"Give it to him, Y/N. They are starting to draw a lot of attention!" Maya passes by, whispering loudly,
You groan, glancing at the door where a couple of regulars were starting to eye the three newcomers intently.
"Fine.” You hurry and scribble your number down on a napkin for him. “But if you text me with some stupid shit, I’m blocking you."
A triumphant smirk crosses on his lips.
"I can live with that," he says, pocketing your number.
“Now about that drink,” Jungkook smiles and you shake your head.
“You three need to go,” you say, reaching over to cover Yoongi and Jungkook's watches with the sleeves of their shirts. “Go," you repeat, your voice urgent but low. "Stay together and don't stop until you're in your car."
"She’s right," Namjoon says, checking his surroundings with an eerie calmness. "We’ve overstayed our welcome by about three minutes."
Yoongi doesn't move immediately. He keeps his eyes on yours, a silent communication passing between you that has nothing to do with basketball or dive bars. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against your knuckles on the bartop for just a second. A ghost of the contact you’d shared in the dark of your room but it felt just as big.
"I’ll text you," he says.
"I’m working until two," you call after them as they turn to leave.
You watch them go as they push through the heavy wooden doors and out into the night. The tension in your shoulders drops an inch, but your heart is still hammering against your ribs.
"Damn, Y/N," Maya whistles, leaning back against the glass chiller. "If that's the kind of trouble that follows you around, I might need to start hanging out with you more. Who is he?"
"A complication," you mutter, looking out the window to see three cars pulling out. "A really, really big complication."
The 2:00 AM air is starting to get a bit crisp, biting through your thin tank top as you walk to your car. The parking lot is mostly empty when your phone buzzes in your pocket.
Unknown: Tell me you made it to your car.
You stop, your keys mid-air. You don't have to guess who it is.
I'm literally opening the door right now. Are you stalking me, Mr. President? You type back.
Yoongi: Checking in.
You get inside, the engine turning over with a familiar groan. You find yourself smiling at the glowing screen.
My brother already checks in every night. You hit send and toss your bag onto the passenger seat, the light from the dashboard illuminating the grin you can’t quite suppress. Your fingers fly across your screen. I already have two brothers who act like prison guards. I don't need another one auditioning for the role.
The reply comes back almost instantly, the three dots dancing on the screen for only a second.
Yoongi: Trust me, "brotherly" is the last thing I'm feeling right now.
Your heart does a slow, heavy thud against your ribs. You stare at the words, the memory of that soft kiss, suddenly making the interior of your car feel warm.
Yoongi: Text me when you get home.
Yes, sir. Anything else? Should I check under the bed for monsters too? You laugh to yourself as you reply.
Yoongi: I'm serious, Y/N. That place tonight... just let me know you're safe.
You sigh, shifting the car into gear. There's a persistent warmth spreading through your chest. He's stubborn, observant, and clearly has no intention of staying in the "one night only" box you tried to build for him.
Fine. I'm leaving now. Don't hold your breath.
You toss your phone before you pull out of the gravel lot. You catch your reflection in the rearview mirror. You look tired, your hair is a mess from a long shift, and you're wearing a shirt that’s seen better days. However, your eyes are brighter than they’ve been in years. You almost don't recognize them.
You pull onto the road, the city lights blurring as your phone lights up on the console.
Yoongi calling.
You let it ring, heart thudding as you smile to yourself. Whatever you started tonight, it’s only the beginning.
p.s. sorry this chapter took so long to come out and it’s so short 💔 I’m gonna start making these chapters longer cause I don’t wanna have so many. This will be the last short chapter like this 😭✌️
Shinsou Hitoshi has been in and out of Foster Care ever since he got his Quirk. He's almost 17 now, has just recently transferred to Class 2-A, and is on his way to becoming a Proper Hero. Going back into Foster Care is the last thing he needs right now. Thankfully, he's got you, his Foster Mom, his favorite teacher Aizawa Shouta, and his best friends by his side.
This Story takes place after the war. Shigaraki and AFO have died, as have most of the League. Hawks has a desk job now.
Masterlist - will be updated once a week - Playlist
Thank you @reverie-starlight for volunteering as Hawks significant other...
part 21
Meeting Mr. Compress, as he used to be called, goes by much smoother. You can tell that he’d been less close with Shigaraki, though he’s also less adverse to the idea of his old colleague leaving behind a kid.
“It would fit All For One,” he admits quietly. “To always keep one door open. You should keep an eye on the kid, just for your own sake.”
You let that threat slide.
“And you caught Okabe?” He asks next, directing his question to Keigo. “Or did she give the kid up just like that?”
“She gave it up,” he explains calmly. “It’s way harder to flee the country with a toddler.”
“But you caught her,” Mr. Compress summarises. “Right?” His smile is dangerous. You can tell he’s looking for something to satisfy his feelings. “She can’t be the only one to get away.”
“She’s dead,” Keigo cuts him off. “And I won’t be giving you any details.”
“What a shame.”
-
“You took that one better,” Keigo points out when you leave. “Do you wanna go for coffee before you return?”
“Sure,” you rub a hand over your temple where a headache is starting to spread. “Tell me about your girlfriend. Distract me.”
“Not my girlfriend.” He sends you a smile. “Yet. But I’m flirting heavily, so she should have gotten the idea.”
“Or you scared her off,” you tease him, leaning back into your seat, closing your eyes as you drive off. “Tell me about her.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to think about the fact that both of Tenko’s parents are dead and that his father most likely didn’t even knew he existed.”
Keigo’s quiet for a moment.
“He’s got you though, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” your throat is hoarse and you try to clear it. “And he’s going to have to go through life with a Quirk his body wasn’t made to have and there’s hardly anything I can do about it.” You take a deep breath. “I’ll be okay and I’ll deal with it and it will be fine, but right now I am not in the mood nor the mindspace to think it through, so please, Keigo, distract me.”
It’s quiet for a second or two before he speaks up.
“She’s shorter than me.” You turn to look at him, but he’s staring out the window, although they’re covered in a black film to confuse your orientation. Just in case you’d want to come back here on your own. “Her first name means star and I think it’s pretty fitting because she’s got a little twinkle in her eyes when she smiles.”
“That sounds nice.”
“She calls herself a little chubby,” he continues, his voice soft and a little breathy. “She mentioned it once to a co-worker and I overheard it. I’d describe her as ridiculously soft instead. Her hair is this really pretty shade of brown and her eyes-” He breaks off and grins, his cheeks dusted pink. “I sound like a fool.”
“It’s sweet,” you brush a strand of his hair behind his ear. “You sound like Hitoshi when he tells me about this one coworker from his internship.”
“Or you when you talk about Aizawa,” Keigo grins, ducking away when you try to slap his shoulder. “You do,” he insists. “Don’t deny it.”
“I’m not denying it,” you scoff. “It’s just not going to happen until Hitoshi graduates and your meddling isn’t helping my patience.”
“Damn,” Keigo laughs. “I didn’t know it was this serious. I’m going to stop, I promise.”
“Good,” you laugh, leaning back. “Otherwise I’ll find this mysterious girl and invite her to our next family get-together.”
“Not the worst idea,” Keigo humms thoughtfully. “I could get serious brownie points for being a great uncle.”
“Not if he manages to knock you out with the Frisbee again.”
“Please, I was barely unconscious.”
-
Hitoshi’s gone for the week, sleeping at the school for a special course about late night Patrols. The House is quiet without him around, since Tenko goes to bed at 7 pm and the pets usually follow suit.
Your earlier restlessness doesn’t translate well to focusing on the project you’re currently working on and you log out of the software, deciding to take a break for tonight when you hear Tenko.
It’s not unusual for him to talk in his sleep, sometimes loudly, though the emotions you’re picking up aren’t positive.
He’s probably having a nightmare and you leap up the stairs to get to him, rushing more the closer you get, his voice agitated and his emotions flickering, Mud whimpering in tune.
Pain and Fear coat the hallway like tar and you push open the door to find him crying out loudly, his hands outstretched, reaching for something you cannot see. His nightlight sheds just enough light to see that his right glove is missing and you send out a wave of love and calmness, hoping it will soothe his pain.
Tenko wakes, startled, blinking around. “Mom?” He asks, his voice raspy.
He pats around the bed, finding his doggie plush as you reach him, grasping it with both hands. It starts to disintegrate right in front of you.
You’re careful not to let the panic bubble up inside you as you gently take his wrists and force him to drop it. His fingers are red and blotchy, his pinky fingers worst of all.
“Easy there, Baby,” you lift his hands and snatch a fresh glove from his nightstand, hoping to get it on before he realizes what’s happened. “No touching things without a glove.”
“It h-hurts,” he sniffles, leaning into you. “M-Mom.”
“I know, Baby.” You make sure the glove is on before you grab his plush from the bed. “One second, okay.”
There’s scissors in the bathroom, you know, and you rush over there, make it just in time to save doggies left side. The stuffing is falling out of the huge hole you’ve created and you dread the next morning, when Tenko will see it.
“Mom?” He calls out from his room and you deposit the doggie on a higher shelf for later handling.
“I’m here, Baby.” You pull him into your arms, careful not to disturb the gloves. “I’m here.”
He’s quiet as he cries. Tomorrow, you know, will be worse.
-
-x- Shinsou Hitoshi -x-
He knows, even before Shouta pulls him aside on the way to training.
Hitoshi hadn’t been able to explain it, that knot of anxiety that wouldn’t leave him even in the dead of night. Like something was going to happen.
“How bad is it?” He asks, as soon as they step to the side. “Who did he get?”
Shouta’s face twitches, an emotion flickers over his features, to fast to catch.
“Doggie, the plush,” he explains calmly. “He lost his better half.”
“No one else?”
“No one else,” Shouta promises. “You thought-?”
“Well, there’s always a possibility, right?” Hitoshi cuts him off, his voice rough in his throat. “It can still happen.”
“No one’s going to let it happen.”
Hitoshi turns away with a humourless laugh. “I bet Shigaraki’s parents thought the same thing.”
He doesn’t get far. Shouta pulls him back by the neck, drags him further down the hallway where they are entirely alone.
“You’re not the only one who is worried,” Shouta insists once they’re firmly out of sight and earshot of anyone else. “You’re not the only one who’s working on a solution.”
Hitoshi sobers. “Right. Sorry.”
“No need to be. I get it.” Shouta pulls him into something that could be considered half a hug. It’s tense, but comforting in it’s own right.
“Can I go home today?”
Shouta sighs. “I can get you in touch with Nezu and I’m sure he’ll let you leave, but-”
“There’s nothing I can do, I’d just be in the way and I’d shoot myself in the foot if I left this training exercise early,” Hitoshi counts down what he already knows.
“Exactly,” Shouta’s hand is back on his shoulder. “If you want to go home, I’ll make it happen. We can figure out the rest.”
“It’s fine,” Hitoshi decides with a heavy heart. “I’ll call.”
-
-x- You -x-
Tenko’s running a fever in the morning.
You’d wrapped his hands in bandages and let him sleep in your bed, all the risks be damned. He wouldn’t have gone to sleep any other way, you tell yourself, knowing that you wouldn’t have been able to sleep with him in the other room either.
Tenko whimpers as you unwrap his left hand. You’re not sure if there is much change or if you’re imagining things. You apply another layer of ointment and wrap his hands up again before you try to leave for a much needed toilet break.
You’re gone for less than five minutes before he wakes. He cries desperately for you, loud enough that even Mildew mewls in sympathy.
“I’m here,” you call out as soon as you’re out of the bathroom. “I was just on the toilet.”
Tenko only calms when you wrap him in your arms again, though you’re pretty sure he’s not falling asleep any time soon..
You’ve got practice caring for sick children.
You’d made congee for your mother every time she had a hangover, learned how to make chicken noodle soup under Yokoyama’s warm gaze. It’s never any easier, even with all the practice.
Hitoshi had been a quiet sufferer.
You’d learned to check his temperature with the back of your hand before letting him leave for school, pulling him out for a sick day even when he swore up and down that he was completely healthy.
He’s not lost that trait yet.
Tenko, however, is the opposite.
There’s no step you can make without him tied to your side. You’re running way too hot with him pressed against you at all times, but you can’t very well open up the windows.
And while he might not be in the mood to talk right now, he’s not quiet either, whimpering low under his breath every time you think he’s finally fallen asleep again.
-
You’ve made it through the third run of Paw Patrol’s biggest adventure when you catch sight of the wooden cubes in the corner of the living room.
An idea pops into your head, too loud too dismiss, and you pull away from a dozing Tenko to get the toys.
He starts whimpering the second you leave him, but calms down again when you slide close once more.
“Hey, love,” you take one of his hands in yours. “Do you wanna try something?”
Tenko’s quiet, but he nods.
“You know how Eri has a horn, right? Did you know that she stores her Quirk in there?”
“She does?”
“Yeah,” you rub softly over his back. “I thought, maybe you do the same thing with your hands?”
You can feel his curiosity even when he doesn’t voice it.
“Maybe you get all tingly and itchy because you need to let your Quirk out. Do you want to try it out?”
“My Quirk? Do I have it already?”
Oh, you realize, you haven’t told him yet.
“Why don’t we check?” You try, lifting the box for him to see. “Pick a cube for what you feeling. Or just any color you want.”
Tenko considers that for a while, eyeing the different cubes. He finally picks a dirty green color, though he seems afraid to take it.
“Nothing’s going to happen while your hands are bandaged,” you promise. “I did your fingers separately.”
You go through the motions of your practice. Put your emotion into the cube.
Eventually, you let him choose one hand and slowly take off the bandages until only his pinky finger is covered.
He tries again. Nothing happens.
“Now we have to be careful,” you tell him quietly, slipping off the last of his bandages. His skin has barely recovered.
Tenko’s eyes are on you, watching, waiting, until you tell him to put all five fingers around the cube. That it’s okay. That you’ll take care.
This time, both of you are watching. There’s no trick of the light. The cube disappears withing seconds.
You let your calm wash over him, slip the bandage back over his pinky and press a kiss to the crown of his head.
“You’re alright, Tenko,” you tell him with your throat raw. “You’re safe. Everything’s going to be okay.”
You’re not sure what is harder to take. His silence or the depth of his emotions.
-
Tenko’s fever goes down quietly. Around Dinner time he’s disintegrated about half of the contents of your trash bag and the rash on his hands has calmed down significantly. Your theory has been proven right, though you haven’t been able to tell him about Doggie’s fate yet.
You’d bandaged his hands back up nonetheless, neither of you trusting a simple glove to hold through the night. Not yet, at least.
“I’m going to make us some soup,” you tell him, brush his hair out of his eyes and tuck him a little further in. “Why don’t you try to nap a little? Nothing’s going to happen to you, I promise. I’ll be back here the second you mutter something.”
He’s unsure, you can tell, but using his Quirk has made him sleepy and he lets you walk away. When you turn back to check five minutes later, he’s fast asleep.
And it’s your luck that you left the living room, because you catch movement outside just in time to stop your visitors from ringing the doorbell.
“Eri?” You blink in surprise at her sight. “Hizashi?”
“Hi,” Eri blinks up at you. “Dad said Tenko got his Quirk.”
“He did. I’m not sure… I’m not sure it’s the best idea to visit today. He’s had a fever for half the day and he’s just fallen asleep.”
She’s unsure of something, you can tell, her emotions all over the place as she looks at her Uncle for help.
“Listen,” Hizashi tells you, sliding in. His arm is around your shoulders as he pulls you in, his tone conspirational. “The young lady has an idea. We heard a dog suffered a terrible fate.”
“Oh,” you blink in understanding. “Yeah, his Doggie plush. I’ve got half of it. I,” you turn to check if Tenko’s still asleep before you speak on. “I haven’t told him about that yet. I’m pretty sure I could get him the same plush easily, but he’d know. His Doggie has been through some wear and tear.”
“With my Quirk,” Eri points at her horn. “I can make it whole again.”
“Oh, I know,” you tell her. “But I can’t make you use your Quirk for this.”
“Please,” Eri looks up at you, her emotions heavy and sincere. “Please, I want to. I like using my Quirk for something good.”
It takes her less than five minutes. Tenko’s still asleep when they leave again, his Doggie plush sitting next to his head as if last night never happened.
And it’s a silly little thing, just a plush getting back to life, but you can’t help but think of a different dog. Of a different boy.
You cry thinking of Shimura Tenko, the first.
-
-x- Hitoshi -x-
You sound the same as always, just a little tired.
“What’s that noise?” Hitoshi asks, his phone digging into his cheek, his back pressed against the concrete wall. On the other side of this wall, his classmates are getting ready for bed.
“Tenko,” he can hear rustling. “He’s been whimpering in his sleep. But I think the itching has gone down. How are you, love?”
His throat is clogged. He breathes in and out, in and out, trying to get rid of it.
“Hey,” your voice is quiet and soft as it washes over him. “Where’s the feeling?”
“Throat.”
“Yeah? What color?”
“Snot-green.” Hitoshi chokes on the laughter that’s trying to spill out through the edges. It’s not funny, but he wants it to be. “It’s disgusting.”
“Mhm. You wanna name it?”
“No.”
“You don’t have to. Think you can sit with it for a moment? Just… feel it, acknowledge it, let it be?”
“I-” He breaks off.
You’re quick to soothe him. “It’s okay, I’m not leaving. We can do it together.”
Hitoshi breathes, in and out, in and out. The snot-green feeling doesn’t waver at first, but he doesn’t have to talk, so it’s less bothersome.
He can hear your breathing, in tune with him, and that little whimper he now knows is Tenko.
“Can you-” He clears his throat, surprised how easy it suddenly is. “Can you give him a kiss from me?”
He can hear the sound of it, muffled, far away. “A kiss from Hitoshi.” And then, faintly, Tenko’s voice.
“Hi, Toshi,” he calls out, his voice high pitched and innocent.
“Hi, Tenko,” he calls back, unsure if the boy can hear him.
“When are you coming home?” Tenko asks, now closer.
“Soon,” Hitoshi promises, his chest lighter, his back straighter. “You only need to go to bed three more times.”
“That’s a lot,” Tenko complains, yawning. “Did you know? I got my Quirk.”
“I heard. Is it cool?”
“It’s okay,” Tenko admits before adding a quiet. “I can still hug Mom.”
“You can still hug me too,” Hitoshi promises, the last of his anxiety sliding off.
“Alright now,” you interrupt when their conversation fades into a content silence. “Tenko needs to get ready for bed. Hitoshi-”
“I need to go too,” he realizes, getting up. “I’ll talk to you soon. Stay safe.”
Shinsou Hitoshi has been in and out of Foster Care ever since he got his Quirk. He's almost 17 now, has just recently transferred to Class 2-A, and is on his way to becoming a Proper Hero. Going back into Foster Care is the last thing he needs right now. Thankfully, he's got you, his Foster Mom, his favorite teacher Aizawa Shouta, and his best friends by his side.
This Story takes place after the war. Shigaraki and AFO have died, as have most of the League. Hawks has a desk job now.
Masterlist - will be updated once a week - Playlist
part 20
-x- Hitoshi -x-
Months have passed.
Hitoshi finishes his internship with flying colors, more bruises than he can count and something like a crush - though he won’t tell anyone about that yet. It’s bad enough that Neito has figured it out, teasing him about it when they’re on Patrol.
He can see his future growing brighter, clearer, shaping into something he can almost grasp.
His second year ends brighter than it has begun, brighter than he ever thought possible.
He’s got a home now, one he likes to return to. He has more friends than he can count, his phone buzzing with messages, his storage filled with candid pictures.
Ochaco promises to bring him treats when she returns for their third year. Shouto has managed to bring both Midoriya and his mother onto the Todoroki Family Vacation and Denki has gotten lost twice in the span of twenty-four hours with only the Class Group Chat to lead him back to safety.
It’s only one week before school starts up again, but Hitoshi is determined to make the most of it.
-
Monday
“That’s an Octopus,” Hitoshi explains, Tenko sitting on his shoulders as they peer into the giant aquarium. “See? It has many arms, like Shoji.”
“Shark!” Tenko points out instead. “Oooh, he’s got big teeth, like Shima!”
Hitoshi laughs. “That’s right. Kirishima’s got shark teeth. Now, let’s go see if we can find a frog to take a picture of. Do you know who looks like a frog?”
“Tsuyu!” Tenko cries out happily and Hitoshi laughs, catching up with you and Eri at the turtle petting station.
The Aquarium is pretty packed today. You’re not the only family who’s taking advantage of the Monday Discount.
Hitoshi can barely remember the last time he’s been here. Had it been with his mother, as a school trip or with you and Yokoyama-san?
Tenko doesn’t get tired of watching the Sharks, shrieking with joy everytime one of them gets close, while Eri observes more quietly, her hand in his.
When he turns, Hitoshi can see you sitting by the little coffee shop, laughing about something Shouta’s saying or waving back when you notice him looking.
-
Tuesday
“Don’t forget the Sunscreen,” you remind them at the Beach, rubbing it gently into Eri’s pale skin. Shouta’s supposed to accompany them today, though he’s yet to show up.
Hitoshi’s not too bothered by his absence. Eri’s going to sleep over for the rest of the week anyway. Shouta will come when he can make the time.
Hitoshi knows at least three of his friends are going to show up later, the group chat overflowing with ideas and invitations, but he’s determined to spend some time with Tenko now, without all the distractions..
“Sticky,” Tenko complains loudly in front of him, wiping the sunscreen onto Hitoshi’s leg.
“I know,” he sighs. “But you still need it. Or do you want to sit in the shadow all day?”
Tenko pouts but lets him rub it in, comforted by little Mud who’s the only pet to join them on this day trip to the beach.
“Now that that’s settled,” Hitoshi leans back a little, “Do you wanna go into the water or build a sand castle? Eri? What do you think?”
“I wanna build a castle!” She crows, reaching for her bucket and shovel. “The biggest on the beach.”
They make good work on that, stopping occasionally to take a dip in the water.
You’re never far off, pulling Tenko through the shallow water on an inflatable unicorn or just sitting in the surf with Eri, letting the water splash your legs as she tells you a story.
Shouta arrives around noon, taking two bites of the watermelon you’ve brought before he falls asleep, not even rousing when Tenko climbs onto his chest to have a nap as well.
“Can you teach me how to swim?” Eri asks, pulling gently on the hem of his swim shorts to get his attention. “Daddy’s asleep.”
“I’ll do my best,” Hitoshi promises, glad when Tsuyu and the others arrive and he can ask a professional for help.
They return home late, tired and sunburnt, and Hitoshi finds sand between his bedsheets even weeks later.
-
Wednesday
“Toshi!” Tenko complains, standing on the foot of the stairs in his All Might pajamas. “Why are you leaving?”
“Oh, I’m just going out with Denki and Neito,” he brushes Tenko’s hair out of his eyes. “There’s a new movie Denki wants to see and then we’ll hang out in the park or something like that.”
“Can I come?” Tenko asks, reaching out his arms, asking to be picked up without words.
“Well,” Hitoshi hoists him up, pretending to consider it. “I would take you with, but that movie is going to be really boring.”
“Boring?” Tenko blinks. “But why do you watch it then?”
“Because Denki wants to and you know him, he always gets what he wants. But we can watch a movie together later this week, if you want.”
“With Neito and Denki?”
“I’ll ask if they have the time,” Hitoshi promises. “Now, do you wanna go back to bed or sit with Mom for a while?
“Mom,” Tenko decides. “Can you bring back some sweets?”
“I’ll try,” Hitoshi promises, handing him off.
You brush a hand through his hair with a smile, pinching his cheek and Hitoshi pretends to be cross about it even as he leans in for a hug goodbye.
-
He wakes up late on Thursday, finding Tenko curled up next to him.
“Mom says we’re going to the park,” Tenko tells him, a brightly yellow cube in his left hand.
“Anyone else coming?” Hitoshi asks, yawning.
“Mirio,” Tenko counts. “And All Might. A-And Uncle Keigo!”
“Ah,” Hitoshi nods and stumbles out of bed, looking for something clean to wear. “So the whole family.”
Tenko smiles up at him, bright eyed and happy. It’s too cute for words.
“Do you wanna fly some kites?” Hitoshi asks on the way down the stairs, finding Eri at the kitchen table with you. “Or Frisbee?”
“Frisbee!” Eri calls out. “It’s so fun to play with Mirio, the Frisbee goes right through him!”
Together, they manage to rope even Hizashi into the fun, though he’s quick to return to the safety of their picnic blanket at any sight of a bug.
Even Hawks, or Uncle Keigo, as Tenko calls him, has got a place in their circle now, Hitoshi finds, surprised at how many loud blondes his world can fit.
-
Friday Night he spends at Shouta’s place, just the two of them.
It feels a little awkward at first, with no Eri, or Tenko, or you to distract them from the silence, but they find their pace quickly.
It reminds him of past times. Reading books with you, as a child. Or staying over at a friends place. Introvert recognizes introvert.
Though there’s something special in falling asleep on the pull out Couch to the quiet breathing of Shouta next to him, his stomach full with food they cooked together hours ago.
Hitoshi can’t help but think that having a father must feel like this.
He’s no longer envious of people who have one.
-
Saturday
Your smile grows with every student that stumbles through the door.
Eri recognizes them all, even when Tenko needs a moment to figure out the name to the face.
“Shima!” Kirishima lifts both of them up at once, grinning like a shark.
“Tenya!” Two pats on the head for each of the kids.
There’s Momo-chan who sneaks them sweets, Toru who loves to play hide and seek and Yama, who teaches Tenko one french word at a time.
Tetsutetsu and Kirishima compare their strength in a Tenko holding contest - the boy does not complain, giggling when they start doing bicep curls with him - and Neito is bestowed the honor of having Tenko in his lap as the movie starts.
Bakugo picked it, though you vetted it first.
“Oh, that’s my favorite movie,” Izuku calls out from where he’s sitting, smushed between Ochaco and Tenya. “All Might Number 1.”
“Of course it’s your favorite movie,” Bakugo barks out. “It’s the best movie ever!”
“I know All Might,” Tenko tells them proudly, sinking back into Neito before he realizes something’s missing. “Toshi?”
“I’m here!” Hitoshi stretches out his hand and drags it through messy black hair. “Mom’s right over there, sitting with Eri.”
“And Mud?” Tenko whispers over the opening sequences.
Koda answers, his soft voice barely audible. “He’s sleeping on my lap. Do you want him close?”
“No, it’s fine,” Tenko decides. “He must like you. He’s very shy.”
Hitoshi can’t help but think that they’re very much alike. But his friends have a habit of softening even the hardest of shells, welcoming even those who do not want to be welcomed.
-
Sunday night you slip into his room with a smile on your face.
“What?” He asks, sitting up.
“I got you something,” you say, pressing it into his hands. It’s cold against his touch and he pulls back to look at it.
“Keys?”
“A car,” you correct him, reaching out to brush his hair out of his eyes.
“I can’t drive,” he reminds you, though his stomach is already in uproar at the gesture.
“I know, silly,” your smile brightens. “You’ve got a bit of free time until your next internship starts. We go for lessons every Tuesday.”
“We?” He asks, his mouth dry.
“We,” you wait for him to process. “You and me. Shouta’s up to help if you feel I’m not the best teacher for you. Wouldn’t be mad if you did, though I promise I have taught others before you.”
Hitoshi swallows thickly. You pull him in just in time, your shirt soaking up his tears.
He’s growing up, he realizes. He’s growing up with you, your hand gentle as it leads him.
-
-x- You -x-
Three days after the new school year starts you finally get the necessary approval to visit Shigaraki’s old friends in prison. It’s been a long time coming and you don’t doubt that all those visits from Hagiwara-san played a role in your evaluation.
Tenko’s doing good so far and you’ve managed to put him into a nearby childcare one morning a week, just so he can get used to kids his age. Of course, that will surely change once his Quirk comes in, but you don’t want to think about that before it’s necessary.
-
“You’ll start with Spinner,” Keigo explains on the way there.
You’re not allowed to drive yourself and you’re pretty sure no Uber would take you, though you’d feel better with someone less threatening behind the wheel.
Keigo’s presence is soothing, despite him being nervous himself.
“Everything you say will be recorded. Your Quirk is a risk but I vouched for you. Use it only when absolutely necessary.”
You nod, the rest of the drive passing in silence.
-
The walls are closing in on you.
You stop halfway down yet another hallway, your hands shaking.
For the first time in your life you wish back those dreaded Quirk-canceling bracelets.
“You okay?” Keigo’s worry adds to the weight on you and you suck in a breath to steady yourself.
“Give me a second,” you press out, let the emotions roll through you and into the ground.
You think of Tenko, how he climbed into your bed this morning to wake you up, how soft he is when he’s not yet fully awake, clinging sleepily onto you.
You think of Hitoshi and the kids at the beach, their skin caked with sweat, saltwater and sand, their laughter drenching the air.
You think of Shouta’s hand on your back that day, his hands cool as they rubbed sunscreen into your sunwarmed skin. How he fell asleep right away and how close he held Tenko, even in his sleep.
Warmth spreads through your body as you focus all your happiness around you, an invisible shield.
Only that it’s not invisible to you, the soft purple glow the softest reminder.
“What’s she doing?” One of the guards asks. Keigo’s voice is soft when he calls your name.
“I’ve never seen you use your Quirk like that,” he comments when you look up and catch his eye. “I could see it… something purple…”
“It’s a barrier,” you explain quietly. “There are many emotions running amok in this building. Someone-” You hesitate, let it wash over you, the barrier holding up. “Someone in here has a Quirk similar to mine, I can feel it. I-” You break off, take another breath. “My Father is here.”
You say it calmly, let the thoughts pass through you. You’ll think about it later. Not now.
Keigo says something to the guards and one of them leaves. You have no mind to look after them, focus on your breathing instead. It will get easier soon.
“Come,” Keigo brushes his hand against your elbow. “We can do this another time.”
“I’m fine,” you insist. “I just needed a minute. Too many people in the same place, that’s all. And, well, too many negative emotions.”
-
You don’t remember where you saw it first or last, but Spinner is not an unfamiliar face.
Still, it’s haunting to see him again, grief and apathy weighing him down.
“How old are you?” You ask, before he can get a word in, before you can even tell him your own name.
“Why do you wanna know?” He snarls, his eyes flickering from you to Keigo sitting by the door. “What’s he doing here? Who are you, anyway?”
“I-” You hesitate. Tell him your name, lick your lips, take a breathe. “I am here to talk about Shigaraki Tomura.”
Spinner scoffs. “Are you some damned journalist or what?”
“No,” you shake your head. “It’s hard to explain. I guess… You’ve been questioned about him before, have you?”
“Sure.”
“Did they mention Okabe Yusu?”
His eyes darken. “Don’t tell me you’re here to talk about this again. Shigaraki never had a child! He’d never! He didn’t have time for that and he’d never want it!”
“Here,” you pull out the bundle of pictures you brought, no longer tucked away primly. You’d been searched thoroughly at the gates, but they let you keep them. “This is Tenko.”
You hold the picture against the glass wall separating you, watch his eyes go wide as he takes it in.
“It’s fake,” he insists after a second, though his hand still reaches for it.
“Can I give it to him?” You turn to Keigo. His face is a grimace but he nods after a moment.
“These are for you,” you point out before you hand them over to yet another guard, wait patiently until someone else hands it to Spinner on the other side. “I thought you might want them.”
“What for?” Spinner scoffs, though he’s gentle as he goes through them.
“He’s got his eyes,” he points out thoughtfully. “Though Shigaraki’s were red, not grey. And the hair-”
“We’ve got Okabe’s confession,” Keigo points out behind you and Spinner’s eyes flicker back up again. “Though I suppose you don’t give much on her word.”
“You’d be right with that,” Spinner scoffs. “She was always obsessed with him, would have told you anything just to get some attention.” He grimaces. “But the kid looks like him, I got to give you that.”
“Say,” you clear your throat. “Say he is Shigaraki’s son. Would you tell me about him? It doesn’t need much, but-”
“What for?” Spinner leans forward. “Why do you even have these pictures? Are you some kind of pedophile, or-”
“I’m raising him,” you interrupt him calmly. “Legally and in every other sense but biologically, I am his mother.”
Spinner puts the pictures down slowly, eyeing you without saying a word.
“Tell me about him first,” he demands finally.
So you do.
How he never stays in bed for long, always slipping out of it after a few hours to find you and cuddle some more. The lengths he goes to to avoid eating even the tiniest piece of tomato and his ever growing love for Pizza. That Unicorns are his favorite animal and Dogs a close second. And, realizing how fitting it now is, that his favorite book is about a lizard.
“A lizard?” Spinner asks, his voice rough though you can feel how much he enjoys that thought.
“Well,” he clears his throat pointedly. “That was nice to hear. I guess I can tell you a few things after all.” He shuffles around the pictures. “What do you want to know?”
You send him a smile, feel the way it undoes him, despite his hardened front.
He’s not used to Gentleness and you have much to give.
Grief recognizes grief after all.
“Did he like tomatoes?” You ask and watch as some of the weight he carries slides off his shoulders.
-
“Thank you,” you press your hand against the glass, let it sit there until Spinner raises his own to mirror your gesture.
“I’ll come back, if possible.”
“You don’t have to,” he shakes his head. “You’ve got a kid to raise.”
“That’s true. But I’ll try to make time. Bug this guy to let me come,” you nod in Keigo’s direction. “So you know what’s going on with Tenko, okay?”
“Why would you do that?” Spinner furrows his forehead. “You’ve got better things to do than come to a prison and talk with some inmate you have no ties to. Does it make you feel better when you play the saint or what?”
You let his anger wash over you, wait until he’s finished.
“I do believe that compassion goes a long way,” you tell him calmly. “My Father is in here too,” you swallow thickly. “Maybe I’m just trying to receive absolution myself? Because I cannot bring myself to meet him, but I can meet you just fine?”
Spinner considers that for a second.
“Fine,” he huffs, getting up. “But if you mess up that kid, I’ll make sure you regret it.”
You smile. “I’ll take your word for it.”
He looks back only once, nodding his goodbyes.
You wonder if he feels different to when he came in. If he can feel what you’ve seen.
Change is inevitable.
-
It’s unusual for Eri to sleep over in the middle of the week, but you let her.
You know it’s nothing but a ruse anyway.
Even Hitoshi can tell, making up some story about how he still has to work on something, leaving the living room to the grown ups.
“You could have just said it outright,” you point out when Shouta pours you a glass of wine. “‘I want to come over and have a talk.’ See? It’s not that hard. I said it and I’m still alive.”
He pushes his hand in your face in retaliation, sitting back on the Couch, his prosthetic leg propped up on the coffee table. “You get sassy when you’re in a bad mood,” he comments. “Every day I learn something new.”
“I’m not in a bad mood,” you huff, taking a generous sip of wine. “I’m just-”
“Yes?” Shouta’s voice is light, teasing, contradicting the richness of the wine.
“Fine,” you take another sip to stall. “Maybe I am in a bad mood.”
“You said it and you’re still alive,” he repeats your earlier joke, grinning. “Now, tell me about it?”
You let your head fall back against the backrest of the Couch. It’s not that hard to summarize what happened. You went in there, you had trouble controlling your own emotions amidst the mass of people you could feel. You talked to Spinner and you left.
But you know that’s not what Shouta’s after.
“I feel sorry for him,” you admit finally, your fingers clenching around the stem of your wine glass. “He lost a dear friend.”
“After he killed-”
“He’s still human,” you interrupt him gently. “He still suffers. It doesn’t take away the bad he’s done, but I cannot close my eyes to the pain. I’ve never been able to.”
Shouta’s quiet after that, watching you.
“I felt my father today,” you admit after a while, when the silence has become too much of a burden. “His Quirk is similar to mine, I’d know him anywhere.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“I met him once at a Club at eighteen,” you admit quietly. “He didn’t recognize me and flirted with me. It was awful. But the last time he met me for me, I was…” You calculate in your head. “Nine, I think, or ten.” You breathe out slowly. “It was a disappointment to both of us.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Thanks,” you force your lips into a smile. “At some point you learn to grief the living.”
Shouta leans in, his hand on your shoulder. You’re not sure where he’s going with it, though the touch is nice, the warmth and weight of it reassuring. His thumb draws a slow circle and his breath washes over your face as he watches you.
If you’d lean in just a little bit, you could kiss him.
His chin lifts just the faintest bit and your nose nudges his, the gentlest touch.
Your breath mingles and you close your eyes, anticipating something you hadn’t thought possible.
“Mom?”
You both pull back at the same time, disappointment pulling thin between you like chewing gum.
Tenko’s standing on the foot of the stairs, rubbing his eye.
“Hey, Baby,” you call out to him, stopping short when you notice something. “Lift your hand for me, Tenko.”
He does and you slide of the Couch in a heartbeat, rush over as fast as you can to grab him by the wrist.
“Now,” you chide him softly. “Glove stays on, you know that.”
“It itches,” he whines. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine, it’s fine.” You lift him into your arms. “We’ll put some balm on right away, kay?”
“Kay,” he leans into your touch, heavy with sleep as you carry him over to the Couch.
“You wanna sit with me?” Shouta asks, patting his thigh.
Tenko shakes his head. “Mom,” he says quietly, his eyes slipping shut before you’ve even managed to open the tub of balm you’ve started to keep ready in every room.
“Let me do it,” Shouta asks, gently taking the balm out of your hands. “His allergies are getting worse, aren’t they?”
“Yeah,” you pull off the glove on Tenko’s left hand and spread his fingers out so he doesn’t accidentally touch something with all five fingers at once. “The Doctor thinks it might be his Quirk coming in. We’ve talked about starting cortisone therapy.”
“Are you ready for it?” Shouta asks as he gently rubs the balm into the red, raised skin on Tenko’s hands. His eye is on you though, dark and questioning. “It could kill you in a heartbeat.”
“I’m careful,” you point out. “And if we’re being technical, I think Hitosi could kill me just as easily with his current driving skills.”
“True,” Shouta smiles ruefully. “I told you I could take over if you needed me.”
“You’re already doing too much,” you insist. Shouta’s close again, and when he lifts his head you lean in to press a kiss to his cheek, just the faintest of touches.
His breath washes over you as you pull back and you immediately feel his hesitation grow.
“I’ll call you an Uber if you want,” you tell him softly. “Or you can sleep in Hitoshi’s room if you don’t want to drive this late.”
“It’s eight p.m,” he reminds you softly and you can see his adam’s apple move as he swallows. “But I’ll annoy Hitoshi tonight. He deserves it for kicking me in the shin during training.”
Aizawa hates to admit it, but he loves fucking married women.
There's something egotistical about it, these women so unsatisfied with their husbands, so desperate for connection, and as much as they try to pretend, they love the way he fucks with their heads.
It's some stupid work party, and you're the wife of the new hire who has left you in some sad corner, all by yourself.
And Aizawa leans on the wall beside you, long dark hair, all tall and stocky muscle towering over you like "well aren't you the prettiest thing I've seen all night. What department are you from, gorgeous?"
And you're so pathetically nervous, can't make eye contact with him like "Oh, uh- I don't work here! I'm here with Mr. Sato, I'm his wife!"
And Aizawa feigns surprise, hand to his chest like "Oh, fuck, I- I didn't mean to overstep! I just saw you from over there and thought that you were so fucking pretty that I just started walking— my mind completely blanked on plus ones."
And Aizawa's voice is softer, feigning concern, almost purring like "I didn't even know Sato was married— especially to a woman as beautiful as yourself. If you were my wife, I'd have that pretty face printed on all my shirts."
You're giggling, looking up at him with those wide, trusting eyes. "Really?"
And he's nodding, brows tilted up in sincerity. "Really."
Shinsou Hitoshi has been in and out of Foster Care ever since he got his Quirk. He's almost 17 now, has just recently transferred to Class 2-A, and is on his way to becoming a Proper Hero. Going back into Foster Care is the last thing he needs right now. Thankfully, he's got you, his Foster Mom, his favorite teacher Aizawa Shouta, and his best friends by his side.
This Story takes place after the war. Shigaraki and AFO have died, as have most of the League. Hawks has a desk job now.
Masterlist - will be updated once a week - Playlist
part 19
-x- Shouta -x-
“And then I said, because of course I had to say something, you know, well then I said ‘Little Man! This is not the way we talk in this house!” and-”
“You said that?” Shouta asks, fighting to keep his voice sounding at least minimally engaged.
Bright eyes blink up at him for a second.
“Well, I thought it, you know, but he’s so young still, I couldn’t help myself-”
“Of course,” Shouta clears his throat awkwardly and reaches for his coffee only to find it empty. His mind starts to wander as the woman across from him continues to babble.
He could get himself another cup of coffee, though that would probably send the wrong signal.
Nakano Susume is a nice woman, sure, a civilian through and through, though Shouta could tell they weren’t going to work out the minute he met her. So far she hasn’t been able to stop talking for longer than a minute at least, interrupting him the only time he got more than five words out of his mouth.
She’s supposedly good with kids, or at least that’s what Nezu told him, but the longer he listens to her the less he agrees with that.
“Well, look at the time-” Shouta interrupts her, feeling not the least bit guilty. “I should get going.”
“Already?” Nakano pouts. “But we’ve had such a nice chat! I guess it can’t be helped, though, right? A Hero’s gotta do what a Hero’s gotta do. Do you have time on Friday, mayhaps? I’d love to go out for coffee again, but if you’d be more into dinner, that’s fine too. I can call my babysitter and-”
“It was nice getting to know you,” Shouta lies through his teeth, patting her hand like one would a dog. “But I don’t think I’m ready for a relationship yet.”
“Oh, of course,” Nakano nods, forcing her expressive face into something akin to understanding. “The loss of your wive must still be pretty fresh. But we could stay friends-”
“I don’t do friends,” Shouta cuts in. “Comes with the job, you know.”
“Oh.”
“Well, have a good day.” He pushes past her before she can start talking again, cursing his prosthetic leg. It has been hurting all day and it’s making his exit more difficult than it needs to be.
-
“No dice,” he texts Nezu as soon as he’s in the car. “She talks way too much. Not that good with children either.”
Shouta lets himself rest for a second, waiting for Nezu’s reply, closes his eyes against the harsh glare of the afternoon sun.
Eri is with his mother today, so he’s free to do what he pleases until dinnertime. He could visit the agency and see how his interns are doing, though Hitoshi has been in an awful mood today and he’s not sure he wants to bear the brunt of it.
His hand twitches toward his phone, the intention clear. It would be so easy to call or text you. And it would make sense, wouldn’t it?
Shouta scrolls through your chat, reading back all the messages. You’ve texted a lot after that first hesitant call, maybe more than he does with anyone else. It felt natural at that time, necessary even, to discuss Hitoshi’s state of mind, or how best to train Tenko’s Quirk ahead of time. Now he can’t help but wonder if he’d already been falling for you then.
When did your feelings for him start?
He can still feel them, like a heavy scarf around his neck, weighing him down.
It has shaken something lose inside him, that night. It sits in the hollow of his ribcage now, rolling around if he moves too much, a constant reminder that he’s not yet dead.
And there’s only one person he wants to talk about it with, though that person is sorely out of reach.
“What would you do?” Shouta thinks and says aloud, feeling pathetic as he does so.
Sinking into himself, he remembers.
Oboro had never been big on following protocol. He’d been open about his opinion, casual with his feelings. Not once had he been ashamed to curl a hand around Shouta, pulling him in, or telling his friends that he loved them dearly, just because he felt like it.
It’s such a difference to himself, and Shouta had always felt mildly envious about it, though now more than ever.
Shouta’s never been one to lean into the emotional side of things and he recognizes now that he’s never thought it possible of himself to do so.
But he has, violently so.
He finds his own emotions mirrored in yours.
That warm affection, trickling down his throat like hot chocolate and burning at the back of his eyes when he looks at Eri. She’s his in a way he could never have imagined.
It bubbles up in him everytime she quips, when she falls asleep curled up to the cats, when she draws another picture of them together, when she curls her hand around his pointer finger or tries to copy his grin in the mirror, not knowing that he’s watching.
That complicated pride and worry he feels for his class and, in addition, Kan’s class as well. They might not be his children, but they could as well be. He’s dried Midoriya’s tears and spent sleepless nights over Todoroki’s fate, has grown grey hairs correcting Kaminari’s tests and let the world know not to underestimate Bakugo.
He’s never been a big brother, but he might as well be, looking after them.
Being a teacher has never felt this way before.
And then there’s the loneliness, that he’s never noticed as much as he does now.
Lying awake at night, listening to Eri’s breathing in the other room, thinking about her growing up.
She’ll be a woman one day, with no one to guide her.
And what about Hitoshi? Who’ll make sure he doesn’t overwork himself? That at least he’ll have a work-life balance. A private life. A family to himself.
But he can’t think about Hitoshi without thinking of you. His eye flickering down to his phone, your profile picture open. Purple has never looked this good on someone.
Your smile feels like a rope around his heart, tightening.
Shouta’s always been proud of being himself. Even when people made fun of his appearance, or his boring Quirk, or his less than gentle way of teaching.
But he finds himself wavering now. Wanting to be different. Or at least… wanting to want to break the rules.
-
“What are you doing here?” Hitoshi asks, face set into a scowl.
“Driving you home,” Shouta clicks the door of his car shut, nodding at Neito. “You too. Get in. Is Hizashi still in there?”
“He’s talking to Funai-san.”
“Good. Are you guys hungry?”
“Starving,” Neito grins, though Hitoshi doesn’t seem inclined to share that sentiment.
“Come on,” Neito nudges him. “We could go for a bite to eat.”
“I’d rather go home,” Hitoshi grumbles, turning away.
Shouta bites down a sigh. So the boy’s angry at him too.
He catches Neito’s eye and nods, pulling out his wallet.
“Neito, if I give you my card, can I trust you to buy us some food without me checking on you?”
“Absolutely,” Neito thrusts his hand forward. “What’s the price limit?”
“Don’t go over 10.000 Yen and we’re good to go.”
“Nice,” Neito takes the card and leaves, Hitoshi moving to follow him.
“Ah,” Shouta pulls him back, his capture weapon curled around the boy’s torso. “Not so fast. You’re with me.”
“What for?” Hitoshi’s clearly pissed now, so Shouta makes sure to pull him along with the capture weapon instead of freeing him right away, keeping his mouth shut in case the boy goes rogue.
At least until they make it to the small backyard of the agency, mostly used by the few people smoking, though the little bench provides a nice place to sit.
“What was that for?” Hitoshi grunts once he’s released, his hair even more on edge.
“Sit,” Shouta points, letting himself fall onto the bench. “You’re pissed. I want to know why.”
“You tell me,” Hitoshi bites out.
“What do you mean?”
Hitoshi’s brows dance as he tries to make sense of it.
“My… When you came by… She talks differently about you now.”
Shouta immediately catches who he’s talking about.
“Is she?” His heart tugs painfully at that thought. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“She’s not telling me what happened.”
Shouta opens his mouth but closes it again, realizing with a start that he’s in over his head.
Is he supposed to tell Hitoshi? And what would he tell him? The boy’s seventeen, has yet to figure out what romantic feelings are, exactly.
“You’re not telling me either?” Hitoshi’s voice is breaking, though it’s disbelief that Shouta hears above all else.
“Sit,” Shouta repeats once more. This time, Hitoshi follows his lead.
“You’ve been trying to set us up,” Shouta points out the obvious.
Hitoshi’s quiet for a second before he nods. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
Hitoshi starts, sending him a bewildered look. “What why?”
“Why did you do that? Try that?”
“I-” Hitoshi sucks in a breath, his hands shaking in his lap. Shouta reaches out and takes one, unsurprised when the other follows, a bundle of hands, of cool skin trying to get warm.
“I don’t want to lose you,” Hitoshi admits, his purple eyes staring at the ground. “And I thought-”
“You’ll never lose me,” Shouta promises, his voice low. He can feel his own words hammering against his ribcage, though they’re not trying to get out. Not this time. They just want to be heard.
“But-”
“Listen to me,” Shouta’s hold on his hand thightens. “I care about you. My hand will always stay like this, reaching out.”
“But what if I let go?” Hitoshi’s voice sounds small now.
“You can always come back,” Shouta reminds him. “I promise.”
Hitoshi’s quiet for a while. Shouta watches him, taking in the lines and ridges he’s yet to notice.
He’s put on a little bit of weight in the last weeks, his cheeks a little rounder now, his skin less sickly in color. He’s healthy, growing, sleeping a little better.
Shouta pulls his hand free and turns on the bench, pulling Hitoshi in by the shoulder, cupping the back of his head against his shoulder.
“I am very proud of you,” he mutters into the vividly purple hair. “But there are some things you need to let go. They are not yours to control.”
“But don’t you like her?” Hitoshi asks, his voice muffled by Shouta’s jacket. “At least a little bit?”
Too much, Shouta wants to say, but he’s got too much self control for that.
“I’d never date my students parents,” he reminds Hitoshi with a wry smile. “Don’t want anyone to accuse me of having favorites.”
“Please,” Hitoshi pulls back, wiping his nose. “You? Never.”
-
They drop Neito off first, which doesn’t make sense at all, but neither of the boys mentions it.
The lights are on still as he pulls up, getting out of the car despite the fact that he still needs to pick up Eri.
“I’m home,” Hitoshi calls out as he steps through the door, laughing when the ginger cat immediately attacks his shoes.
“Welcome home,” you call out somewhere from the side, your voice warm.
You haven’t seen him yet, though Shouta thinks you must have felt him, his own insecurities, his longing, his affection for everyone living here.
He can see himself coming home to you, calling out your name as he steps through the door.
“Hi,” you greet him too now, Tenko heavy on your arm as you step closer. “How’s Eri?”
“Good,” he says, swallowing. Tenko’s waking as he’s looking for something to say, blinking up at him with bleary eyes.
“Hi,” Shouta repeats, feeling a little out of the loop, surprised when Tenko wordlessly reaches out, slipping into his hold like he’s never done anything else.
The boy is heavy and warm, smells like freshly washed linen and that citrusy perfume you’re using. His curls, though ink black, remind him of Oboro in a way that settles bittersweet in his gut, though Tenko doesn’t notice, just sinks heavily into him with a sigh.
You laugh somewhere to his left. “He’s met All Might today,” you explain, fussing over Hitoshi and the bruise on his cheek that hadn’t been there in the morning. “He’s all tuckered out. We started Quirk training too, and he’s gotten a hang of it real quick.”
“Already?” Hitoshi asks. “He’s not gotten it yet, has he?”
“No, no, don’t worry.” You steer them into the kitchen despite Hitoshi’s claims of not being hungry. “Just something to work on his emotional control.”
“Bed,” Tenko mutters, his nose mushed against Shouta’s neck.
“You want to go to bed?”
“Mhm.”
“I’ll take him,” you offer, stepping closer. Your face seems open, but there’s a guardedness to it that pains him, despite being the cause for it.
“I got it,” he promises. “I’ll take him upstairs. It will only take a second.”
“I don’t know if he’ll settle without me-” you start, but you let him move past you and up the stairs, the pitter patter of tiny feet coming after him as Mud follows quick on his feet.
Tenko’s quiet as Shouta tucks him in, already half asleep.
The rash on his cheek has gotten much better, he finds, brushing his thumb over it.
An All Might action figure sits on his night stand next to a picture of you, Tenko and Hitoshi. Shouta recognizes it. You’ve set it as your profile picture just last week. He still wonders who took it, who captured the candid softness on all your faces.
“He’s asleep,” you point out, surprising him. He hadn’t heard you come up.
“Ah, yes,” Shouta steps back, watches as you tuck Tenko in once more, brush a hand through his hair and kiss on his forehead.
“Hitoshi?”
You look up. “He’s downstairs, finishing his english homework.”
“Good. I had a talk with him.”
“About that-” You lead him from the room, down the hallway. Shouta’s breath hitches when you step into your own bedroom, beckoning him to follow.
It’s too private, too intimate, and he can see the furrow of your brows, knows that you can feel his hesitation.
“It’s alright,” he pushes out despite himself. “It’s the only privacy you get, right?”
“There’s the bathroom-”
“It’s fine,” he leans against the closed door and keeps his eye on your face, careful not to look at anything else. Still, he spots your sleepwear folded up next to your pillow, has to fight his amusement when he finds out you sleep in flannel too.
You watch him silently for a beat before speaking up.
“What did you tell Hitoshi?”
Shouta licks his lips before summarizing, knows it’s the least he can do.
“I’m sorry that I made you feel uncomfortable,” you tell him once he finishes, your voice sincere, your arms folded in front. He knows a shield when he sees one though he wishes you didn’t need it around him.
“Thank you,” he pushes his hands into the pockets of his trousers just to keep them occupied. “I’m sorry I’m attracted to you.”
You laugh, the sound hollow and foreign.
“I’m sure it will pass,” you say, and Shouta stares at the ground and wriggles his toes, hoping to get rid of that feeling building up inside his chest, yet knowing it won’t leave him.
“If it doesn’t,” he presses out, wishing he could take back the words as he says it and wishing he could get them out a little faster just to get it over it. “If it doesn’t fade until… Hitoshi graduates-”
You suck in a breath. When he tries to catch your eye you look away.
“We’ll talk about it when it happens,” you tell him softly, stepping closer.
It takes him a moment to realize you’re ushering him out of the room again, but when he does he can’t stop the pang of disappointment.
“You need to pick up Eri,” you remind him. “I should be done with most of my projects at the end of the week. We can figure something out then.”
“Text me,” he says, the words heavy with meaning. You nod, brushing past him on the way down the stairs.
His heartbeat only slows when you do, hours later.
You: That stew you made last time we came over, do you have a recipe for that?
His thumb hovers over your profile picture for far too long as he cherishes the simplicity of your text. You’ve opened the door again, let him step in or keep the distance.
It might be a tricky sea to navigate, but if you’d let him be your friend, he’d take it.
Shouta: Only if I get the recipe for your breakfast muffins.
Shinsou Hitoshi has been in and out of Foster Care ever since he got his Quirk. He's almost 17 now, has just recently transferred to Class 2-A, and is on his way to becoming a Proper Hero. Going back into Foster Care is the last thing he needs right now. Thankfully, he's got you, his Foster Mom, his favorite teacher Aizawa Shouta, and his best friends by his side.
This Story takes place after the war. Shigaraki and AFO have died, as have most of the League. Hawks has a desk job now.
Masterlist - will be updated once a week - Playlist
part 18
-x- Shinsou Hitoshi -x-
“Are you sure this is fine?” Midoriya asks, moving from one foot to the other in the entryway.
“I told you it’s fine,” Hitoshi insists. “Mom said they went out to grab Pizza for Dinner, she’ll be back in a minute.”
“But Tenko-” Midoriya adds, clearly at the edge of an anxiety attack.
“My little brother,” Hitoshi explains to Shoji, who’s just put his shoes aside. “By the way, Shoji, if Tenko acts scared of you, it’s nothing personal, he’s scared of everyone he doesn’t know.”
“I understand,” Shoji nods. “It must be hard coming into a new family. How old is he?”
“Three and a half. He’s pretty cute, you’ll see. Do you wanna go upstairs while we wait? I’m not sure we’ll be able to get much done down here.”
“Sure,” Shoji nods and tags after him, calling after Midoriya once more when the other boy doesn’t catch up right away.
Not for the first time Hitoshi’s glad that Aizawa-Senseiput him in a group with Shoji for this project. Shoji’s quiet, calm and reliable and he balances Midoriya’s anxiety well.
Even now, as Midoriya gets distracted by the All Might poster on the wall, Shoji pulls him back to focus.
It doesn’t take long for them to get back to what they’re here for, cracking down on what they still need to get done.
“We’re home!” Your voice calls out from downstairs, followed by the sound of eager footsteps coming up the stairs.
His door is open and Tenko appears, hair disheveled, cheeks rosy.
“Toshi! I got to pick the Pizza!” He calls out before realizing that Hitoshi’s not alone.
Mud yips by his feet and Hitoshi waves at his little brother, hopes that his smile is enough to comfort Tenko..
“Hey. What did you get for us? This is Shoji and this is Midoriya, they are my friends.”
“H-Hi!” Tenko sputters, hands curled into the doorframe.
Hitoshi gets up, walks over and offers his hand. Tenko takes it, curls both arms around him, clearly distressed.
“They won’t bite,” Hitoshi mumbles quietly. “I promise. Do you want to get to know them or should I take you down to Mom?”
“Mom, please,” Tenko whispers and Hitoshi nods, picking him up.
“Let’s go downstairs guys. It’s time for Dinner.”
-
“Ah, Midoriya,” you ruffle his hair as he greets you before offering your hand to Shoji. “And you are?”
“Shoji Mezo, Ma’am. Thank you for your hospitality.”
“It’s no problem, really.” You turn to Hitoshi who’s the last to come down the stairs, Tenko’s arms already outstretched.
“Oh, did you get scared?” You take the little boy and let him press against your chest. “Don’t you want to get to know these boys a little better? They must be nice if Hitoshi brought them with.”
Hitoshi chuckles and sidesteps you, pulling out a chair. “Ooh, good choice with the Pizza, Tenko.”
Since your hands are momentarily occupied, he takes it upon himself to distribute some pieces to everyone’s plate, stopping only once to turn to Shoji.
“I know you eat with your other mouths sometimes. Do whatever you feel comfortable with, no one cares about manners here.”
“Okay,” Shoji nods, eventually settling on pulling off his mask to eat.
Tenko, sitting in your lap instead of his own chair, looks curiously up at him.
“Did you always have this many hands?” He asks Shoji, braver now that he feels safe.
“No, I was born with two,” Shoji explains calmly. “Quirks develop around the age of four, and there was a time around my fourth birthday when my arms would constantly hurt and my jaw as well. They grew so slowly at first that I didn’t notice until the last stretch, which happened one night.”
Tenko’s eyes widen and he turns to look up at you. “Could that happen to me too?” He asks. “Could it?”
“I don’t think so,” you say. “It happens, but it’s unlikely to have a vastly different Quirk than your parents.”
Tenko blinks and turns back to Shoji. “Do you have a dangerous Quirk?”
“No,” Shoji shakes his head slightly. “My Quirk itself is not dangerous. It’s just that people think I’m scary from the way I look.”
“Oh,” Tenko blinks up at him. “But you don’t look scary. You look funny. I like you.”
Pink spreads across Shoji’s cheeks and Hitoshi averts his eyes to give him a moment.
Midoriya, on his left, is weirdly quiet, though his lips are moving without stopping.
“Midoriya?” You ask, no doubt sensing more than Hitoshi. “You okay?”
“F-Fine, I’m fine, totally f-fine!” He insists. “I just couldn’t help- I noticed- I mean I saw-”
“Yes?”
“Tenko looks exactly like his Dad, doesn’t he?” Midorya presses through his teeth, his scarred hands clenching into fists.
“So I’ve been told,” you comment calmly, your eyes searching for Hitoshi’s, your shoulders relaxing only when he gives you a curt nod.
“I do?” Tenko asks, turning to Midoriya. “Did you know him?”
“I did,” Midoriya’s voice is tense. “He was a-” He breaks off. “You look just like him.”
Tenko doesn’t seem to consider that tidbit interesting. Instead, he looks up at the green cloud of curls atop Midoriya’s head and breaks into a smile.
“I like your hair. It’s green. Like a lizard!”
-
They’re on the last stretch when the door to his room opens again, Tenko hanging onto the doorknob with all his might.
“Yeah?” Hitoshi looks over. “You need something, Bug?”
“I’ve got a book,” Tenko exclaims. “I wanna show you.”
“Well, come one then,” Hitoshi pats the spot next to him. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Tenko hesitates before he pushes himself forward, stumbling through the room on unsteady feet, Mud, as usual, hot on his tail.
Hitoshi catches him under the arms and lifts him onto his bed, checking in with Midiroya swiftly. “Yeah, that paragraph, I agree.”
Tenko’s got his book open and points at a tall green lizard that walks along a stone path, wearing a top hat and a fancy cane. “He’s green, like…” Tenko’s grey eyes move toward Midoriya, no doubt struggling to remember his name.
“Midoriya,” Hitoshi helps him, unsurprised when green eyes cut over instantly.
Tenko struggles with the long name, a tongue twister in its own right.
“You can also call me Izuku, if you want,” Midoriya offers. “That’s my first name. O-or Deku.”
“Zuku,” Tenko decides with a relieved smile, going back to his book, pointing at the lizard again. “This is Zuku.”
“You wanna see, Midoriya?” Hitoshi asks, waiting for the boy to come over. He’s not surprised to see tears forming, though Midoriya catches himself before he starts sobbing outright.
“Shoji,” Tenko says than, pointing at something else on the page. “This is Shoji.”
They all lean in to see better and Hitoshi has to fight not to snort.
Shoji, at least in little Tenko’s eyes, is a fat spider with giant legs, asking the elegant lizard for help.
“I don’t think he knows what an octopus is,” Hitoshi whispers, reaching out to pat Tenko’s hair. “He just saw all those legs and went from there.”
“Thank you, Tenko,” Shoji tells him earnestly. “I like it.”
Tenko smiles proudly, pulling on Hitoshi’s sleeve once more.
“Toshi,” he declares pointedly. “I need to pee. Help?”
Hitoshi sighs, getting up. “Fine. Let’s go.”
-
Tenko’s sleeping soundly in your arms by the time his friends leave, so he misses both of them softly patting his hair and Midoriya’s parting tears.
“He’s doing better with strangers,” Hitoshi points out, taking a seat on the Couch. Mildew arrives to curl up in his lap and he pats her absentmindedly. “Is that idea with Eri coming over still on the table?”
“Not sure,” you say, your eyes focused on your screen. “I told Aizawa-san that I currently don’t have the bandwidth to look after two children at the same time, at least not until I have finished a few more projects. Why?”
Hitoshi halts, brows furrowed. You haven’t called Shouta Aizawa-san in a long time.
“Did you guys fight?”
“Who?”
“You and Shouta.”
“No, Hitoshi, we didn’t fight.” Your voice is carefully void of emotion though, a clear sign you’re not telling him everything.
“But something happened.”
You sigh. “You’re thinking too much.”
“And you’re not telling me enough.” He pulls out his phone, jostling Mildew in the process. She mewls and leaves him, clearly annoyed with his treatment of her. “Neito spent his afternoon at the agency, I can just ask him if you want.”
“Do that, if you think it’s necessary,” you tell him, your voice pointedly calm.
“Some things, love, are not meant for the ears of children.”
“I’m seventeen.”
You turn to throw him a look. “You’re still my child.”
“I’m not,” he insists, anger lacing his tone. “You’re supposed to be my big sister.”
“Call it what you want, Hitoshi, I am your guardian.”
“Since when are you so stubborn?”
Your shoulders are tense. You don’t turn to look at him for a while and he waits, anger bubbling in his veins.
“I’m sorry if this upsets you, but I will not discuss this with you.”
“Why not?!”
Tenko wakes in your arms, crying out in confusion. You sway him softly, throwing Hitoshi a pointed glance.
“Whatever!” He scoffs, storming up the stairs.
He’s too annoyed to text Denki or Neito at the moment.
It’s not like they’ve done much match-making recently, too busy with school and the preparation for their internship. But he’d felt like they’d gotten at least somewhere, in their efforts.
Hitoshi’s not sure what annoys him more. That he’s back at zero or that you’re not talking to him about it.
You’ve told him everything else before. What’s so different about it now?
“Hitoshi?” You knock softly on his door. “Can we talk?”
“No,” he turns in his bed, back to the door, just in case you come in. “I want to sleep.”
“I don’t want you to go to bed angry.”
“Well, you should have thought about that earlier,” he points out cooly. “Goodnight.”
-
-x- You -x-
Hitoshi’s anger has simmered into something quieter and uglier over night.
He keeps his distance in the morning, even half-asleep, pretending not to hear you when you address him. At least he stays soft with Tenko, who thinks it’s funny his big brother suddenly turned deaf.
At least until Hitoshi leaves without hugging you goodbye.
“Is he mad?” Tenko asks when the door closes and you’re left alone.
“Yes, Bug, he is.”
“Why?”
You sigh. “It’s a little complicated. Do you wanna help me do the dishes?”
“Do I have to?”
You laugh, surprised at his honesty. “No, Bug, you can play with Mud if you want. It will only take me a minute.”
-
You’re glad he’s being honest with you.
It’s another step forward to what could be considered a “normal” family life. Only when he truly feels comfortable can you expect him to be honest with you.
It’s the same with Hitoshi, truly.
He wouldn’t dare to be mad at you, to show it like this, if he didn’t think himself safe with you.
Though that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.
-
“Look what I got you,” you grab a box from the pantry and put them down in front of Tenko.
Inside are wooden cubes about the size of his palm, all painted in different colors.
“Wood?”
“Yes,” you laugh. “Though these cubes are special. They are colorful and smooth and easy to hold. You’ll see why this is important. I want you to pick a color that best matches what you’re feeling right now.”
Focused, Tenko moves them around, finally landing on a pastell yellow cube.
“Okay, I want you to hold it up, just with four fingers at the moment, can you do that?”
Tenko nods and does as he’s told.
“Focus on what you’re feeling. And where you’re feeling it. And then imagine you’re putting that feeling into the cube.”
“How?”
“Don’t think too much about it. Imagine it first.”
His brows furrows as he tries.
“That’s good, love. Now try it with all five fingers.”
Tenko looks stricken.
“You’ve got your glove on, baby, it’s okay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. We’re training right now. I want you to be mindful of what you’re doing with your hands, but that doesn’t mean you can never use all five fingers.”
You try it a few more times, switching out the color in between when Tenko admits he no longer feels yellow.
Eventually, you have him stop.
“You can pick a cube of the day. It doesn’t have to fit your emotion, but I want you to carry it with you wherever you go. When you feel something strongly, imagine yourself putting it in to the Cube. That doesn’t mean you no longer have the emotion, but it won’t be as strong in your body. So when you’re angry or confused or afraid, you can put that emotion in the cube and think better.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” Tenko asks, blinking up at you. “When you get mad at Toshi?”
“Something like that, Baby. I always put my emotion in my feet.” You wiggle your toes around until he laughs. “It’s so close to the ground I can let it slip out of me when it gets to much.”
-
You’ve just put Tenko down for a nap when the doorbell rings.
You expect Keigo, maybe Hagiwara-san or even Aizawa, though all of these are wrong.
“All-All Might?” You stare in shock at the figure in front of you, a shadow of his former self.
“Ah,” he rubs a hand over his neck, grimacing. “I hoped I could get by unrecognized. Please, call me Toshinori.”
“Can I help you?”
“Maybe? I- Tsukauchi, you see, he told me-”
“Yes?”
“You have a son? From the Shimura family?”
“Yes?”
“Would it be terribly forward to ask if I could meet him?”
You hesitate. “He’s taking a nap at the moment.”
“It’s okay,” Toshinori waves his hands around awkwardly. “I came by unannounced. I just- I learned of his father’s existence much to late. You should know, Nana Shimura, your son’s great grandmother, was a dear friend to me. My Mentor.”
He oozes kindness and wears his emotions openly, a hint of guilt and lots of nostalgia.
You sigh. “Come in,” you let him step through. “But be quiet. Tenko’s hard to put back to sleep.”
“Tenko?” Toshinori nods slowly. “That was his fathers name too, before he changed it.”
You lead him up the stairs, watch quietly from the door as Tenko’s chest rises and falls with each breath, his black curls like ink stains on the pillow. Mud sleeps curled against his side and his two favorite plush toys sit guard in the corner of the bed.
“How is he?” Toshinori asks, his voice thick with emotion.
“Lovely,” you tell him honestly. “Both anxious and curious, stubborn and eager to please. He’s afraid of what his Quirk will be, but willing to learn how to control it.”
“Ah,” Toshinori nods. “I believe he’ll have his Fathers Quirk. All For One wouldn’t change it up too much. After all, he knows how much it pained me to see Nana’s family used like this. How much it pained her.”
“Do you-” You hesitate, though go through with it. “Do you want to talk about it? I can make us a cup of tea.”
He nods. “Why not? Let the boy sleep.”
“Mama?” A voice whispers behind you. You turn to find Tenko still deeply asleep, a gloved hand pressed to his lips as he dreams.
“One second,” you tell Toshinori and step inside, brush your hand through inky curls and press a kiss to Tenko’s forehead, leave him with the sweetest feelings of them all: Being loved.
-
“Tsukauchi told me a few things,” Toshinori admits as you digest what he’s told you.
About Nana, about himself, about all the things in between.
“I could pick out the rest. Poor Tomura.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t imagine that he ever felt truly loved. I’m sure All For One raised him, though in what way? A person incapable of love-”
“Do you think he knew-?”
“He would have been seventeen,” Toshinori points out calmly. “Or around that age. By the time we came across him, he was about twenty years old and acting like a spoiled kid. He would not have the care nor the foresight to do something like this. And why tell him? It would be better to let him think he’d be the end all, the culmination of his Masters plans.”
“And the mother?”
Toshinori sighs, taking a sip of his tea.
“Not much is known. Mentally instable, a broken home. She was older than Tomura by a bit, disappeared out of nowhere. The letter she left with the kid gave not much information. If they found her, Tsukauchi hasn’t told me.”
“What a world,” you sigh, lifting your head when you notice movement at the stairs.
“Hey,” you smile up at Tenko who’s peering down at you. “You’re awake. Wanna come downstairs? We have cookies.”
“Who’s that?” Tenko asks, his voice still thick with sleep.
“A friend,” you explain. “Toshinori knew your Great Grandmother.”
Tenko blinks. “Is he old?”
“Yes,” you giggle as Toshinori coughs into his fist. “Do you want to say hi?”
“Fine,” he huffs out, slowly climbing down the stairs. “My hand itches.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” You catch him at the last step, lift him up to press a kiss to his cheek. “We’ll put some balm on it right away.”
Tenko nods, though he keeps his eyes on Toshinori. “You look like All Might,” the boy points out after a while, unmoving as you take off one glove to rub balm into the red, raised skin.
“I do, yes,” Toshinori smiles. “You are very perceptive, young Tenko.”
Tenko considers that, turning the cube he had with him in his hands as he thinks.
“Are you All Might?”
“I am, yes.”
Tenko’s eyes widen, but you can tell he’s still a little too tired to grasp it all, heavy in your hold as you put the glove back on and tackle his other hand.
“Do you know Toshi?”
“Shinsou Hitoshi,” you explain quietly as you brush back Tenko’s curls. “He’s with us as well.”
“Oh, young Shinsou.” Toshinori smiles. “A brave young man.”
“He’s my brother,” Tenko points out, sliding down from your lap to pick a yellow cube from his box. “Do you want to practice with me?”
hey! ur work is like super awesome and every time i come onto tumblr i see if you posted something new lol. anyways i was wondering if u could write a dadzawa fic. reader is his daughter but is quite different from him. doesn’t go to a hero school, gets half decent grades, makeup, and is ALWAYS out somewhere. aizawas been talking to his coworkers (aka midnight, mic, snipe, ect.) on how he should come about giving her a talk about her behavior. one day when he decides to pick her up from her school to talk to her, he sees her KISSING A BOY!! he immediately intervenes and gives her a talk that day.
themes: humorous/comedy, fluff? maybe angst?
It’s Not a Phase, Dad
FEATURING Shouta Aizawa x Reader (PLATONIC)
SUMMARY Aizawa’s daughter is independent, extroverted, emotional, and absolutely nothing like him. That’s fine. Until he catches her kissing a boy behind a vending machine and has to reckon with the fact that she’s growing up fast… and he’s not ready.
CONTENT WARNINGS light angst (Aizawa is trying his best), protective parenting, mention of a kiss
AUTHORS NOTE this was honestly an absolute joy and treasure to write, I crack myself up LMAO
The UA staff lounge smelled like burnt coffee, lemon-scented whiteboard cleaner, and chaos.
Aizawa had barely slumped into the worn vinyl couch with his thermos when Nemuri spoke, eyes sharp and lips curved.
“She’s been applying lip gloss mid-conversation.”
Aizawa didn’t look up. “She’s allowed to wear lip gloss.”
“This one was glittery.”
He sipped his drink. “Still legal.”
“And she reapplied after laughing at something a boy said,” she added, tone a little too delighted. “You don’t reapply unless you’re planning a strike.”
“Sounds like battle prep,” Hizashi chimed in from the corner, legs crossed, sunglasses perched halfway down his nose like he was a war general delivering intel. “That’s sparkle-coded warfare.”
Aizawa gave them both a long, deadpan stare. “You two need hobbies.”
“I have a hobby,” Nemuri said sweetly. “It’s watching you spiral over your teenage daughter.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You’re spiraling,” Hizashi confirmed.
Aizawa exhaled and ran a hand down his face.
It had started small. His daughter—his only child—had been more… social lately. More makeup. More texting. Music in her earbuds at all hours. Laughing too loud at things that didn’t sound funny. Out of the house more than in it. Friends he didn’t know. Names he didn’t recognize. Boys.
Not that he didn’t trust her. She was smart. Independent. A little dramatic, but thoughtful. But still—a father noticed when his kid stopped leaving her door open, started asking for cash, and started hiding her screen whenever he walked past.
And Aizawa wasn’t stupid. Just… wildly underprepared.
“She’s expressive,” he said. “And excitable. I knew that already.”
“She said your scarf is ‘giving cryptid chic,’” Hizashi added helpfully.
Aizawa blinked. “She what.”
“And that you look like someone who hasn’t had a warm meal since the war.”
Nemuri cackled.
“She’s always had a strong personality,” Aizawa muttered, sipping his coffee.
Nemuri rested her chin on her hand. “She’s fourteen. Strong personality is just hormones in winged eyeliner.”
“She’s not like me,” he admitted finally, voice low. “She’s social. Loud. Emotional. She cares about stuff I don’t get. And I don’t want to smother that—I just don’t know how to handle it.”
There was a pause.
“Talk to her,” Hizashi said quietly. “Before she thinks you’re just this guy who grunts over dinner and stalks her boyfriends like a traffic camera.”
“She has a boyfriend?”
“She kissed someone?” Nemuri sat bolt upright, hair bouncing. “WHO?”
“I never said—”
“Oh, it’s worse than we thought,” Hizashi said, flailing. “He’s behind. She’s already out there giving her heart to some artsy math C-student who wears too much cologne.”
“Probably named Takuya,” Nemuri added.
Aizawa stood. “I’m going to pick her up from school today.”
“Oh no,” Hizashi whispered, as if watching a man walk into battle without armor. “He’s doing The Talk.”
Mid-afternoon light slanted across the sidewalk as students trickled out of the building, laughing and stretching as they stepped into the sun.
Aizawa lingered across the street, arms folded, tired eyes scanning the crowd. His scarf was draped loose around his shoulders, and his hood was down. He didn’t want to frighten anyone—just… observe. Calmly. Quietly. Like a rational adult.
And then he saw her.
His daughter was leaning against a vending machine, legs crossed at the ankles, school bag at her side. Her nails were painted black. Her uniform skirt was rolled once at the waist. She was smiling—no, laughing—head thrown back as she teased the boy standing too close.
Aizawa squinted.
The boy had his hands in his hoodie pockets, sneakers scuffed, posture lazy. He was smirking. Like he knew he was being looked at. Like he liked it.
And then—
The boy leaned forward.
And kissed her.
Not a peck. Not a joke. A real kiss.
Aizawa’s thoughts short-circuited. For a split second, every villain he’d ever faced, every rooftop chase, every rescue op—none of it compared to the sheer horror flooding his bloodstream.
He stepped forward.
“Ahem.”
They broke apart like someone had detonated a flashbang.
His daughter stomped a full three steps behind him like she was hoping to dissolve into the sidewalk. Her shoes scuffed with every step, and she muttered something that sounded like "this is the worst day of my life.”
When they reached the apartment, she dropped her bag by the door and immediately turned on him, arms crossed, cheeks flushed.
“You spied on me.”
“I picked you up.”
“You watched me kiss someone!”
“I was standing on a public street.”
“OH MY GOD.”
“Language.”
She groaned and flopped onto the couch like she was staging a one-woman stage play.
“You weren’t supposed to be there!”
“You weren’t supposed to be kissing him behind a vending machine.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You’re fourteen.”
“You’re prehistoric.”
“Correct.”
They glared at each other across the room.
Aizawa finally crossed his arms and exhaled. “Listen. I’m not angry.”
“You’re furious.”
“No. I’m… trying to figure out how to parent you.”
That stopped her.
“What?”
“You’re nothing like me,” he said plainly. “You’re bright. Loud. You feel everything out loud. You dress like someone on their third world tour. And you keep falling for loud music and glitter pens and questionable boys who wear socks with sandals.”
“They were crocs!”
“Worse.”
She laughed—genuinely. A bit shocked. “You… don’t hate him?”
“I don’t know him. Which is the point.” He moved to the chair across from her and sat with a soft grunt. “I don’t want to spy. Or suffocate you. But I do want to be involved. Because I worry. Because I care. And because I remember being a stupid teenager who thought he knew everything.”
She paused, studying him.
“Were you like me?”
He raised a brow. “I wore cargo pants and had no friends.”
She cracked a smile. “So… not at all.”
“Exactly.”
They sat in silence for a moment. The afternoon light had shifted, softening the edges of the room. She tucked her legs beneath her and tilted her head.
“You still gonna glare at him?”
Aizawa shrugged. “Probably.”
“You gonna interrogate him?”
“I’ll keep it subtle.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Define subtle.”
“I’ll erase his quirk if he blinks at you wrong.”
“DAD.”
Back in the UA lounge: “She kissed him behind a vending machine,” Aizawa muttered.
Nemuri screamed. Hizashi dropped his pen.
“Oh no,” Hizashi whispered. “It’s worse than I imagined.”
“You handled it, right?” Nemuri asked. “Like an adult?”
thinking about gynecologist! simon who is a pervert. you've always come to him with your mother, but this time, she couldn't, so you're alone here.
a pretty, sweet, polite, and innocent girl who's unaware and uneducated about sex.
as soon as he sees you alone, a huge smirk creeps its way up his face. it's his lucky day today.
"i see you're alone today, y/n" he asks, raising his eyebrows as he comes in, locking the door behind him. tightly.
"oh-uh, um, mr-dr. riley, yeah, i-my mom was busy so i had to come-come by myself"
"oh. don't worry. i'll take good care of you, y/n"
you smile, not knowing what exactly he means by taking good care
"okay-okay, dr.riley"
you sit on the chair across from him, and he fills out your details on the doctor's form. he can't contain his excitement, the nerves evident on his face, as well as between his legs, where he feels his cock thickening at the thought of your tight, virgin cunt.
and of course, you were a virgin.
"so, we'll begin by having you on the chair miss. y/n, please take off your clothes"
you gulped down, standing up and grabbing the hem of your shirt, pulling it off your head. he stood in front of you, licking his lips as you let go of the jeans, tight jeans you were wearing, and stood there in your white bra and panties.
"take off those too, please"
you took them off too, slowly, and threw them beside you, now fully naked and standing in front of him.
simon was breathless. he was having trouble containing himself, and he wanted to bend you over at some surface and have his way with you, push his fat cock in your tight, tight pussy, and fuck you bloody raw.
maybe he will.
. . .
you all can tell me if you like this one! i wanted to do a full-ass smut scene, but wanted to see if you all would like this first! reblog, please!
- Note: This came about because I was just talking crazy in the dms with a mutual. I originally wasn't going to ever let this see the light of day, but then I decided, why the hell not? If I get smacked with delayed embarrassment, I'll just delete. Yeah, I know this isn't what I usually write and post, but oh well. Anyways, after this, we will be back to our regular scheduled content shortly. Oh, and sorry for minor mistakes, I wrote this like at midnight.
. . .
You decided to put a movie on. Just for a distraction. After about an hour into the movie, the leather couch got a bit uncomfortable since it stuck to your skin. So you slunk down to the floor, bringing a pillow or two down with you to use in case extra comfort was needed. The movie was beginning to lose your attention, but you still watched the screen attentively as if you were still focused on the film's plot.
What ended up catching your attention, was the slight shifting couch. Well, slight probably wasn't the correct word, as the movement was anything but light. It was safe to assume the shifting was from a guy who was well over 200 Ibs and a few inches short of 7 ft, although you didn't know the exact numbers because you never wanted to ask König outright.
It was easier to hear the movement, as the large figure scoot a few inches over. Instead of sitting beside you like he was a few seconds earlier, he had not so discreetly moved to take your vacant spot and sit directly behind you. He tried to stay quiet, he really did, but it wasn't so easy for him given his size. At the very least, he treaded carefully, not bumping your back once with his legs or accidentally knocking the back of your skull with his kneecaps.
You didn't move, but your eyes slowly glanced downward, where you could see the tip of his boots. Custom made, as most department stores didn't carry anything in his size. Most articles of clothing he had were custom-made or bought in special stores, save for that odd black diy mask he often wore over his head like a hood to hide himself from the world. Too afraid to lean back and accidentally make contact and disturb this fragile peace, you remain still despite the slight ache in your lower back that make you want to lean back and stretch. But you don't. All you could do was try to revert your attention back to the movie and not think any unholy thoughts, that is, until you heard more movement.
To not bump his knees against you, Konig spread his legs a bit and leaned down. The edges of his homemade cloth mask brushed against your back as you stiffened up, and you could make out the shape of his head beside yours as he whispered, "Do you, uh, want some...?"
Yes. "What???"
"Popcorn? Do you want some popcorn...??"
Oh.
After deciding whether or not you'd accept his offer, silence ensued, only fueled by the movie playing on the television. You weren't gonna lie, you have no idea what the hell was going on in the story anymore. A solid minute passed when he spoke again, sounding just as unsure as the first time. He spoke, as if whatever thoughts he had on his mind earlier where left to simmer for long enough.
"Scheiße. Sorry, should I have not moved here...? You can still lean back if you want?"
"Oh, okay... I, um, I'll do that."
Your back was starting to ache a little from sitting up without support, so, feeling just as awkward as he was feeling, you leaned your back against the couch. Instantly, as soon as you did that, your peripheral vision was covered by his knees and part of his legs. The movie was pretty much pointless now, as you were currently wondering whether you should thank whatever gods existed or curse them for the fact that König did not have shorts on. Even without shorts and with specially fitted cargo pants, they could not conceal the insane bulk of his legs. Especially his thighs. Good lord. The two pillows you brought down before from the couch were essentially useless now because on each side of your head were his limbs that rivaled the best of My Pillow.
Think of something else, anything else, is what you tried to tell yourself.
That idea would go out the window as soon as you felt something in your hair. Carefully twisting a few strands, you felt some thick and calloused fingers gently try and feel the texture of your hair. But it lasted only for a brief second, as he immediately pulled his hands away and murmured a tiny bit louder from his whisper earlier, "Ah, sorry, I should've asked first. I should not have done that. I am sorry––"
"It's okay, I... don't mind." You shrugged it off, and much to your surprise and contentment, he continued.
The first few seconds had a bit more hesitancy, but as time ticked by, seconds turned to minutes, his boldness increased. It started with his large hands carefully feeling the texture of your hair, then it became slow brush strokes as his thick fingers ever-so-carefully untangled knots in your stands of hair. Until eventually it escalated, and he gathered the courage to do something so bold as to scratch your skull. He could easily take your entire face in one hand and crush your skull, but he didn't. There was no sign of any such roughness. Instead, his fingers and nails continued to comb through your hair, lightly scratching your scalp. At first when he did this, he paused, and waited for any objections or signals of a negative reaction, but after no such thing, he continued and seemed pleased.
It was after about five-minutes and heavy mental debating in your mind that you decided to suck it up and go for it. What's the worst that could happen? Honestly, you didn't even expect to make it this far.
So, after taking in a breath, you let your head fall to the side. It wasn't like those romantic scenes where you watch the character lean their head against a love interest's shoulder. Oh no, you were skipping that part, your ear landed right on his thigh. Which was probably due to the cushion you placed underneath you on the floor that elevated you a few extra inches, or else you might've missed. In that moment, right as the side of your head landed on its intended target, you felt him freeze. His fingers stopping, nails still on your scalp. A second passed, then two, then three, like time froze.
You were almost tempted to pry yourself off and apologize, but you really didn't want to. But you had to ask. "Is this alright...?"
"J-Ja... I mean, yes..."
Your eyes widened, and you were sure you had on some goofy kinda grin but at least you weren't facing him so he couldn't tell. Once you heard his response, your shoulders slumped, relieved of tension you didn't even know you were carrying.
Even with your head against his thigh that wasn't plush but was still definitely comfortable, you realize you were no better than a man as you resisted the urge to just reach out and squeeze his other thigh that had gotten closer without you even realizing it. You had to dig your nails into your knee to prevent yourself from acting on impulse.
It was definitely almost pure muscle from what you could tell with your head on one of them. Firm but somehow still soft. Thick thighs, in fact, do not save lives, because these thighs have ended who knows how many between them in finishing moves on the battlefield. Lucky bastards. Trying your luck agian, you place a shaky hand on his other thigh, but he didn't react. A good sign? Possibly?
Forget goth gfs and thick plush thighs, apparently giant anxious austrian soldiers with thighs as thick as tree trunks and strong enough to obliterate skulls like melons were the new fad.
Movie totally forgotten, your vision was entirely covered when König leaned down a bit from his spot on the couch and you tilted your head to look up and meet his gaze. The masked man stared at you, his blue eyes peering down at you through the two small slits cut into his mask for his eyes to see. His mask partially dangled, but not fully, so not revealing himself to you. When your gaze traveled away, abruptly his thighs got closer, squishing your cheeks and the sides of your face but not enough to hurt. Just a bit of pressure to get you to look up again.
Oh god.
There was literally no space between your face and his legs anymore, and your arms instinctively went to the outer side of his thighs to try and pry them apart a bit. You didn't try much, maybe because you enjoyed it or because you didn't exactly have strength strong enough to rival his, so all you could do was clutch the pockets of his cargo pants that were just above his knees, your nails digging in softly just to get a quick feel.
Once he saw he had your attention again after he applied a bit of pressure, he cocked his head to the side and continued to look down at you through half-lidded eyes darkened by the shadow of his hood. Then he spoke, but this time with no apprehension in his quiet tone.
"You do know I've ruined others that were in a similar position to what you are in right now?"
pixelskylines
discoholicmusic
tangentwithtanner
prguitarman
titsay
