Searching For You!

🔎 Searching for you!

a social media au | scaramouche x fem!reader

sypnosis ; after attending your favorite band's concert and after party, you decide to drink your heart out, and when you finally sober up, you're left with a "call me" note, thousands of messages of your best friend yelling at you to wake up, a hangover, and allegations to beat, yesterday, you were a normal fan who admired 6reeze, and now you apparently stole a kiss from one of the members, what do you do when you find out he's searching for you?

genre ; idol!au, modern!au, fluff, sfw, stangers to lovers

warnings ; everyone in this smau are adults, suggestive jokes but no smut, pictures i use do not depict the reader's skin color, height, or body shape, they're used to show poses and are used as visual descriptions, slow updates, more to be added.

notes ; soooo yeah starting another smau, however this one will start at a later time, i'm planning to start it on the 4th of january, alsoooo the fandom name for 6reeze is swirls 😭 idk if that makes sense but i can't think of anything else

taglist status ; [ closed ]

presenting the cast for searching for you!

⤷ broke ass swirls | insane people (+xiao and kazu)

Season 1 | i wish you were sober

01 - sounds gay, i'm in

02 - BITCH GO DM HIM

03 - meetup???

04 - #discrimination #homophobia !!

05 - a kiss worth remembering

06 - his plus one

07 - 6reeze? more like 6lowjob

07.5 - may all non single bitches burn and die

08 - autocorrect (???)

09 - bros beefing w a cat

10 - mans is so whipped its ridiculous

Season 2 | to the newlyweds!

11 - the bouquet is no liar

12 - you should eat pussy, not be one

13 - date 2.0

14 - tba

15 - tba

16 - tba

17 - tba

18 - tba

19 - tba

20 - tba

I WISH YOU WERE SOBER.

pairing — ?? x f! reader [ college seniors! smau ]

characters — albedo, childe, xiao, thoma, kazuha, scaramouche, diluc, heizou, ayato (prime kisser suspects) / hutao, ganyu, ayaka, lumine, venti (mystery machine)

synopsis — in which you were never really one for spontaneity or precipitous decisions, until you got yourself drunk at your senior year university party and woke up the next morning with the most dreadful of hangovers…along with a painfully distorted memory of a stolen kiss on that hazy evening.

(or, you’re fucked because neither you, nor your friends, have absolutely any clue about the identity of the person you somehow ended up kissing last weekend. and just when you’ve finally set your mind on unmasking who the mysterious individual is, all the guys around you begin to exhibit rather unorthodox behaviors.)

warnings — mentions of drinking, cursing, annoyingly sLOw burn

author’s words — hi huhu my first try with writing smau :””) would like to credit @ilkuni for all her amazing series and for the influence behind the style !! you honestly inspired me to also attempt in making my own hehe, i hope you’re having a lovely day >< and to @sohyuki !!!! the first person i bounced off the idea to, and encouraged me to go for it :(( this wouldn’t have been possible without that little push, so THANK YOU! ilu lots <3

note — displayed timestamps and dates on the photos are inaccurate unless there’s a specified author’s note. writing + uploading schedule will be sporadic. send an ask if you want to be added to the taglist!! <3

chapters with this symbol [❥] are set in texts or tweets whereas those in this symbol [✎] are written. additionally, chapters marked with this symbol [❞] will contain written flashbacks from the night of the party.

twitter profiles — mystery machine / prime kisser suspects

| i. save me ’til the party is over. |

❥ [ 01. ] shitty hangover ❥ [ 02. ] she threw up lmao

❥ [ 03. ] three hours ✎ [ 04. ] you did what?!

❞ [ 05. ] another drink ❥ [ 06. ] beside his car

❥ [ 07. ] reckless actions ❥ [ 08. ] unwanted implications

❥ [ 09. ] cross his name ❞ [ 10. ] bumping into strangers

❥ [ 11. ] cars and bets ❥ [ 12. ] drink and drive

❥ [ 13. ] a genius idea ✎ [ 14. ] a…date?

❥ [ 15. ] it’s your spelling ❥ [ 16. ] is it over?

✎ [ 17. ] get away with anything ❥ [ 18. ] should we?

❥ [ 19. ] crash course ❥ [ 20. ] ice cream and movies

✎ [ 21. ] god knows ❥ [ 22. ] the standard

❥ [ 23. ] trending ❥ [ 24. ] i can do this!

✎ [ 25. ] find out for yourself ❥ [ 26. ] even you?

❥ [ 27. ] check in ❥ [ 28. ] tba

| ii. kiss me in the seat of your rover. |

❥ [ ++. ] tba

✎ [ ++. ] tba

❞ [ ++. ] tba

| iii. real sweet, but i wish you were sober. |

❥ [ ++. ] tba

✎ [ ++. ] tba

❞ [ ++. ] tba

---

I'M LOVING THIS GODDD

I SHALL NOT FORGET I SHALL NOT FORGET

— Love Rivalry: 32. new member

kaveh x reader

main m.list | series m.list | previous | next

SYNOPSIS You’ve been rejected by your academic rival, alhaitham, without even confessing or having feelings for him. You decided to go to a party to fix your damaged ego, so why are you suddenly making out with his roommate?

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---

he’s finally out of hoyo’s basement!!

MY HEARRRT

I LOVE THIS SWEET MAN SO MUCH 😭😭💗

— Ran eyes the stairs that lead to his childhood home with hesitation. He glances at the rusted metal on the railing in remembrance — staring at the chipped paint on the walls next door. His initials are still carved into the wood below — his brother’s mirroring his own underneath. 

Ran hasn’t seen his mother in a long time. He hasn’t been back home for even longer. 

He's not sure he would even call this place home. 

He'd messed up terribly at the age of thirteen, and had spent a good amount of time in a correctional facility to make up for it. By the time he was out, he'd decided to leave the apartment he’d grown up in behind. He didn't give his mother much room to object — she didn’t have it in her to do so either. She'd grown weary of her words falling on deaf ears. She loved her boys, she really did. But there was only so much her heart could take — there was only so much destruction she'd allow them to partake in under her roof. She’d simply nodded when he told her he was leaving, not bothering to meet his gaze. But he remembers the fight she’d put up when Rindou had said he was coming too. He remembers the ache in his heart at being cast to the side. And he wonders if he would’ve stayed if she had begged him to. He wonders what it would be like for her to fight for him too. 

At fifteen, he’d dropped out of school. At twenty, he was an active member in a street gang. He never went to visit her — he never told her how he was doing either. Rindou left out as many details as he could when he did. For their sake and for her own, she never asked anyway. 

The two boys cleaned up their act as they got older. They'd started their own business — had grown extremely well known and successful in the industry too.

Still, he never called. Still, he rarely went to visit.

Yet here he was, standing at her doorstep, debating over whether or not he should knock ─ over whether or not it was wise to come speak to her. He had something to tell her; something really important. But a part of him didn’t want to see her look at him in disappointment — a part of him wanted to avoid her look of regret. It was that part of him that had decided to avoid her altogether. He despised that look — he hated how inferior and small it made him feel. Like he was fifteen all over again. Like he wasn’t edging thirty-five. Like he hasn’t long since been responsible for not only himself, but others too.

He had a difficult relationship with his mother. A push and pull he'd never been able to figure out. They were too much alike. He never felt like he was enough. 

She wasn't a cruel woman. She wasn't evil by any means. She'd been good to him — good to the both of them. She always has been. She always would be. 

But he's just like her — a part of her ribs, a part of her soul. He's just like her and it terrified her to her core. She’s just like him and it made him want to hate her even more. 

But a mother was a mother, and he was still her boy. A mother was a mother, and he had no choice. 

So he sighs, and he brings his knuckles up to the door. 

He hears her shuffle around before it opens and she blinks at him in surprise. She doesn’t smile but she reaches for him immediately and he bends to let her hug him. Her embrace lasts only for a moment. He doesn’t think he could stand it if it lasted any longer. Fragile arms hold his face, scolding him for looking so gaunt — criticizing him for smelling like smoke. 

He thinks he's home now, here with her words. He wonders if this was still home.

Whatever that meant at this point. Whatever that was supposed to mean. 

She ushers him inside and he's nervous all over again. He can't remember the last time he'd been this scared to face her. 

Maybe it was when Rindou had broken his arm and he had to be the one to tell her — when he was only seven and it was his fault. He should’ve looked after his brother better. He should’ve stopped him from his own stupidity. 

Or maybe it was when she'd stared at him behind the visiting glass at the juvenile prison — when she’d stared at the bruise on his face and the avoidance in his gaze and didn’t bother saying a single word to him. 

He furrows his brows at the flurry of thoughts. He doesn’t want to remember any of that at all.

She doesn't sit, so he follows her into the kitchen. He eyes the sliced meat and the cloves and the spices scattered across the counter. He takes a seat at the small dining table in his childhood home and she goes back to cooking. 

"What is it?" she asks him, breaking the silence. 

Her back is to him as she stirs the pot and he stares at her — at how small she is compared to him —at how small everything here was now that he was older and taller. 

"What makes you think it's anything?" he replies. 

She rolls her eyes, licking her teeth.

"Don't start with me, boy. You never visit without your brother."

He looks down at his knuckles. He eyes the emptiness in his hands.

"What's going on?" she says again. Her voice is still sharp but there’s a softness to it. Like she's prepared for the worst. Like she can handle it if he told her.

He sighs, leaning back in the wood chair. It creaks under his weight and he scratches at the worn out material of the table. It was old. Everything here was so old. She'd refused to let them move her out even after they'd had the means to. "Leave it alone,” she had said. “I'm fine with the way things are."

Ran had shrugged, dropping the subject after the first time they’d brought it up, but Rindou had kept insisting. 

He never got his way in the end.

"I've been seeing someone," he tells her. She pauses her stirring, but doesn't turn around.

He keeps going, rubbing the back of his neck as he tenses.

"For about a year. A little longer than that, I think."

She doesn’t say a word as she holds her breath, pretending to reach for the salt instead — as if she hasn’t used enough of it already — as if she needed anymore.

"She’s pregnant, Ma."

Her eyes are sharp and wide as she turns to look at him. He sees himself in her silent rage. He sees himself in the lavender of her fury. And he knows it's rage for your sake. He knows what she's thinking.

That poor girl. That poor, poor girl.

It's courtesy for you. It's concern and worry for a girl she hasn't even met yet.

Not for him. He doesn't think it's ever been for him. 

"Is she your woman?"

He dwells on the question for a moment, pondering between the literal and the figurative. He decides to go with the former. 

"She was.”

“Was?” 

“I messed up," he reveals.

"What did you do?" Her anger is silent ─ it's quiet and building.

"I said some shit I shouldn't have when I found out."

There it was. There it is.

That look of disappointment he'd wanted to avoid — that silence he hated drowning in. 

Your fault, the still air seemed to ring out. It’s all your fault.

"Is she keeping it?"

He glances at her when he replies.

"Yeah."

"Do you plan to be in their lives? Because if you don't, you leave that girl alone. You do your part financially, and you leave her alone. Do you understand me?"

The skin around her knuckles turns a ghastly white as her grip tightens against the ladle in her palm. 

She’s quick to speak — quick to assume. Quick to judge — quick to decide for him. She’s right, he knows that. She’s always been right. But he hates the lack of autonomy — he hates that he gets no say when it comes to her. He digs his nails into the skin of his palm and he wonders just how hard he'd have to press to dissipate his anger — just how much would it take to stop the pressure in his lungs.

But he thinks of you, and he decides against it. He thinks of you, and he decides to explain instead.

He tells her that you’d broken up with him after all that he’d said. He tells her that he'd apologized not even a week later. He would've apologized earlier but you had refused to see him. He’d wanted to say sorry immediately, but you wouldn't let him. 

He tells her what he’d told you — that he wanted to be with you, that he wanted to take care of you and the baby. And he tells her what you'd told him — that you'd quietly nodded, accepting his words, but that you wouldn't take him back. Not yet at least. Not so soon after that.

 "I need to have this child first," you had said at the time. "I need to know you won't leave when I do."

She leaves the ladle in the pot and moves to sit at the table in front of him, listening intently. It's the most she’s ever heard him say. It's the most he's ever directly said to her about his life. 

It's ironic and heartbreaking ─ the sad reality of a mother and son who know nothing of each other — the truth behind those who have made no attempts to forgive and to heal and to move on with one another.

She sits back.

"Smart girl. Good on her."

He runs a hand across his face, groaning. "Come on, Ma."

She sighs, her chin in her palm as she stares at her eldest son.

"I'm worried about your choice in women though."

He laughs at that. For the first time in a long time, he laughs with his mother. For the first time in a longer time, she smiles back.

He remembers when she’d walked in on him having sex just after he’d turned eighteen — at how angry she’d been that the woman had been in her late, late twenties. And though she’d been visiting the apartment out of concern for her kids and their terrible eating habits — she had still ended up throwing her shoes at the both of them. He thought she was crazy at the time. He had been convinced she was out to make his life a living hell. But he understands now — why she'd been so angry. He gets why she'd been so scared and hurt — why her fear that he’d get taken advantage of had blinded her with rage.

She remembers when Rindou had shown her a picture of the girl Ran had been dating when he was twenty-one. She remembers looking at the screen, shaking her head in disappointment. She could tell from her eyes alone that the girl had ill intentions — that she was no good at all. She’d told Rindou that much on his way out. He’d shrugged, thinking nothing of it. 

She’d found out later that the two boys had been robbed — that they'd nearly been jumped — and that the girl had been involved. 

Ran doesn’t speak to his mother in the hospital. She’d doted on Rindou the entire time instead. 

—

The two of them sigh synchronously.

"You’ll like her more than you like me," he says into the still air. 

She tilts her head at him, and she wonders what he thinks her perception of him is. It doesn’t seem good. It doesn’t seem good at all. And she can’t help but wonder if she is to blame.

“No, you’ll love her,” he reiterates.

There’s a fond smile on his face as he looks back at his mother, and she wonders idly about the girl that was able to bring a gentle expression to her son’s face at the mere mention of her presence.

"I'd like to meet her — the mother of your child. I want to meet her."

He looks at her, and he nods. He was hoping she’d say that. She looks back at him, and she tries to smile. She was hoping he’d agree. 

The two of them were a mirror image of each other in ways they would never understand, in ways they could never explain. They tore each other apart and the pieces never fit together properly again. There was room for Rindou. There was always room for his mistakes.

But Ran had to cut himself up piece by piece to find a place. He’d had to tip toe through the mess and cut his skin against her shattered fury before he’d given up altogether. She didn’t know he’d been looking so desperately. He didn’t know he didn’t have to look that far.

"Yeah.” He says. “Yeah, I'll bring her over."

She tells him that it seems like the two of you are on good terms despite it all, and he chuckles, nodding in agreement. He feels himself grow weary when he tells her that he's proposed to you multiple times since then, and that you'd rejected him every time. 

She laughs a little too loudly for his liking and he shoots her a glare.

"Bring her over soon. I need to meet this girl."

She goes to make him a plate, ignoring his protests as she places it in front of him on the table. He sighs in exaggeration at her insistence and she shakes her head as she stands before him, watching as foregoes his etiquette. She musses his hair before her gaze falls to a silver strand in the darkness of his hair, and her stomach sinks with guilt. She hadn't realized how much older he'd gotten. She hadn’t noticed all that she’s missed out on. She clears her throat, ridding herself of the thought as she peers at her son once more. 

"How old is she, by the way?"

His mouth is full, when he replies "twenty-four" and she smacks the back of his neck immediately — ignorant of the food he chokes on.

"You fucking idiot."

"Give it up, woman.”

She shakes her head, mumbling obscenities to herself as she washes the dishes. 

He doesn’t leave until he finishes his plate. 

—

He calls you on his way home, your voice soothing him as his phone connects to the speakers in his car.

"Hello, gorgeous,” he says, the moment you pick up.

"What’s wrong?"

He rubs at his temple at your response.

"I can flirt with the mother of my unborn child without there being an ulterior motive, you know."

"I know." you say. There’s a pause — a brief one from your end. "But there is something, isn't there?"

He stares at the screen. There is.

He wonders how you know. He wonders about all that you know. He avoids your question instead.

"What are you doing this weekend?"

You hum in thought.

“I have an appointment on Saturday.”

“For what?” He furrows his brow. He’d been consistently attending the ones you’d told him about. This was the first he’d heard of this one. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, it’s okay,” you say. “I just need to get blood drawn, it shouldn’t take long.” 

“Alright. What are you doing after?”

"Nothing, I think,” you respond as you fold a t-shirt — his t-shirt. “Why?"

"My mom wants to meet you."

There's another pause from your end. There was more weight attached to this one — more emotion and fear, worry and concern.

"You told her?"

"I did."

"What did she say?"

You're nervous — a little scared, even. He can tell by the subtle change in the lilt of your voice. You didn’t want her to think of you as an ‘easy girl’. You knew that it was traditionally frowned upon to have a child before marriage. Your grandmother had given the two of you an earful herself. “Put a ring on her finger,” she’d scolded him. “She won’t let me,” he’d complained right back. It went well in the end. It went better than you would’ve thought. 

But you’d never met his mother before. He rarely spoke to you about her at all. And you're worried she’ll look down on you — that she'll hate you before you’re able to be anyone but the mother of her son’s child. You’re scared that your identity will be reduced to just that. 

The low tone of his voice brings you back, and you grip the phone to your ear as he responds.

"That she wants to meet you."

You furrow your brows.

"That's it?"

"Yeah.”

“Really?”

“What do you want me to say? That she cursed me out for knocking you up? She's on your side, you know. Called you a smart girl for not taking a ‘good for nothing’ man like me back. The hag gave birth to me but she's siding with you. I can’t believe this shit." He shakes his head in fake disbelief. He’d expected just as much from her anyway. But you didn’t need to know that. 

You laugh, and he loves it. You laugh, and he loves you. The sound makes its way around his car and he finds comfort in the beauty of your joy.

"I miss you," he says after a minute. It's been a few days since he'd last seen you — a few days too long.

You hum again in response. 

He drives in the quiet for a little, listening as you move around, and he wonders what you're doing in the apartment on your own.

"I miss you too," you finally confess.

Your voice is soft — quiet. He might’ve missed it had his phone not been connected to the speakers in his car. The gentle smile reserved just for you makes its way back onto his face and he glances at your name on the screen. 

"How are you? How's the baby?"

He nears the daunting building of his penthouse, but he finds himself thinking more and more about you and your one-bedroom apartment and all the space you let him take up when he was with you. He wonders if you'd let him come over. He wonders if you’d let him stay. 

Home. He thinks briefly of the word again and he finds that there’s a person attached to it now — and he knows that it’s never been a place. Not for him at least. Not since you.

You eye your belly, stroking the swell of your stomach.

"She's good. A little fussy today though."

“She's keeping you up?”

You sigh, and he knows then that the baby had been relentless in her efforts to do so. 

“She thinks it’s fun to kick my bladder.”

He snorts. Funny kid. 

"And you? How are you?"

Your heart flutters just a little at his incessant need to check up on you.

"I'm okay."

He tells you he wants you to keep talking to him. Talk about anything, talk about whatever — just until he gets home. He doesn't tell you why. He doesn’t need to either. You knew that his relationship with his mother was strained. You knew they had a hard time being around each other. And you knew that his nerves were probably shot.

So you sit on the couch and you tell him about your day — what you watched, what you ate, how many times your baby kicked, and a few of the names you'd been considering. You talk and it's everything to him — you talk, and you breathe life back into him. You're a little distracted in your speech, pausing at odd times, forgetting your train of thought here and there, and he figures you must be doing something else while talking to him. He doesn't tell you that he's been sitting in the garage of his penthouse for seven minutes now. He doesn't tell you that he's already home. It's selfish of him, but he needs you to ground him for just a little longer — for just a bit more.

"I have to pee, Ran."

He tilts his head against the headrest, grinning as you interrupt his train of thought.

"By all means, baby. Go ahead."

"Pervert.” 

He laughs and the concern in your chest eases up just a little. He's okay. He'd be okay. He tells you he'll see you soon, and you nod in agreement.

“I love you," he says before you can hang up.

And you want to say it back like you used to. You want to say it back like you've always done before.

But you don't. Not yet.

Not yet.

"I know," is your quiet response. 

And he's thankful for that at least. He's thankful that you know.

—

He lights a cigarette as he leans against his car in wait for you. You hated when he smoked in your apartment, but you’d despised it even more when you’d gotten pregnant. He’d resorted to smoking outside when he came to visit — a plastic chair set aside just for him now resided on your balcony. You’d read his text, but you hadn’t responded — so he smokes and he waits, and he eyes your door as he exhales. He takes another drag before he crushes the stick of nicotine underneath his shoe, and he runs a hand through his hair as he makes his way up to the second floor.

He knocks and he waits for a moment. He decides to wait another two. 

You open the door right before he’s about to knock again and his eyes soften instantly at the sight of you.

He was so lucky. He was so ridiculously lucky. You were always so lovely — always so beautiful.

But your eyes are wet and there’s a pout on your lips — a slight tremble to them that you’re trying to hide. He finds that he can’t even greet you properly. His first thought is to comfort you instead.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

He moves one hand to the small of your back, the other shifting to cradle your bump instead. You’re beautiful in the dress you’d decided to wear and you’re pretty as you look up at him with tears in your eyes. 

“What’s wrong, love?” he says again.

“My shoes won’t fit.”

He blinks at you as he processes your words, and he resists the urge to smile.

“My feet hurt and my shoes won’t fit. Don’t laugh at me, asshole.”

You almost cry, and he moves his thumbs to your lash line before you do.

“Not laughing at you, baby,” he says, hiding his grin. “Come on, princess.” 

He takes your hand and guides you to the dining table. You sit, wiping at your eyes while he digs through the small pile of shoes in your closet. He finds a loose pair of sandals that he knew had to fit, and he waves them once over his head. 

“Ta-da.”

He kneels in front of you, reaching for your feet as he switches your shoes out for you. He slips the sandals on, long fingers gently tugging at the straps, and he rubs at your feet before he smiles up at you. He looks tired, you think. He looks a little scared. 

You go to reach for his face but he stands before you’re able to stroke his cheek. 

“Where’s your purse, baby? We gotta go.” 

You nod, grabbing your bag, and he takes your palm in his silently as he locks your door behind the two of you. He pockets your key and you understand. You know that he wants you to stay over at his place tonight. 

And maybe exes shouldn’t treat each other like you and him. Maybe they shouldn’t brush eyelashes off of each other’s cheeks. Maybe they shouldn’t have copies of each other’s keys. Maybe he shouldn’t kiss your jaw. Maybe you shouldn’t grip his wrist.

But the lines have been crossed in more ways than one, and the bridging continued to occur.

You don't let go of his hand the rest of the way there. He doesn’t think he wants you to either.

—

You’re scared.

You’re really, really nervous. Your hand naturally drifts to your belly, and you shy away to stand behind him when he knocks on the door. 

He turns to kiss your forehead, brushing your cheek gently in the process.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “It’s okay.”

You listen as the door unlocks — you watch as it creaks on its own hinges and opens. Ran bends to kiss his mother’s cheek and you watch as a thin hand pats his back before a woman speaks. 

“Yeah, yeah. Where’s the girl?” 

He rolls his eyes and moves slightly out of the way. You peer at her from behind him and her eyes widen. You smile and it’s filled with nerves — filled with kindness and a gentle nature. 

She stares at you in awe. She stares at you in wonder. 

“Oh.”

What good could her son have possibly done in this lifetime, and how quickly was he repaid for it with you? She can’t help but reach for you. She hesitates for a moment, worried it’ll make you uncomfortable, but you step into her embrace and she hugs you. She hugs you and she says nothing else, and you want to cry at how tightly she holds you. You want to break down at how much she looked like him. 

She’s a thin, spindly woman — shorter than her son, but a little taller than the average woman. Her hair is long and black — her face framed with strands of gray. Her eyes crinkle when she smiles and your heart aches. The lavender in her gaze looked just like his. The subtle hurt in her eyes mirrored his own too.

He looks away — gazing into his childhood home instead. 

He can’t look at her. He can’t look at you. 

She ushers the two of you inside, and you follow her into the kitchen. She talks, and you listen. And though her gaze had drifted to your belly a few times over, she doesn't say anything about the baby. She doesn’t say anything at all. He watches as the two of you fall into a natural rhythm, and he lingers near the entry as you help her set the table, fingers twisting the ring in his pocket. He expects that rejection is inevitable tonight as well. 

Dinner is quiet. They don’t talk to each other much. The air isn’t tense, but it’s brutal in its presence. It’s a silence they’re used to — a silence they’re unable to live without. She asks about you, and you tell her all that you can. She asks and you answer and it isn’t so bad. It isn’t so bad at all.

You’re unable to read the expression on Ran's face as he picks at his food, and your brows furrow in slight concern as you stand to help her clear the table. 

It’s then that he rolls his sleeves up. 

It’s then that she gives a disapproving look and sigh as her gaze drifts to the tattoo wrapped around his arm. 

She shakes her head and he drops the plates into the sink. You flinch at the sound. 

“Are you gonna react like that every time?”

Her eyes flit to you for a second, before her gaze sharpens at her son. 

“When your kid comes home at thirteen with a tattoo covering the entire left side of their body, you’d be bitter about it for a long time too.”

“It’s been twenty years, Ma.”

“Like I give a shit,” she mutters as she moves to turn the sink water on. 

He’s angry now. You watch in worry as they bring out the worst in each other. You watch as they weave a web of sorrow — you watch as they strike and suffocate one another.

“My kid can mess up all she wants. She’ll still be my fucking kid.”

He doesn’t realize that she knows that already. He doesn’t get that she knows that very well. He’s still her son. He’s still her boy. And she hurts because he’d sought refuge in other vices instead of her. She hurts because she had no one to blame but herself. She quiets when her gaze drifts to you once more and she turns to the pot on the stove, busying herself with its contents.

Your eyes are wide as you stare at your lover. 

His chest rises and falls in resentment as he glares at her, before he reaches for his cigarettes, making his way back outside.

You don’t know what to do with yourself. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say. You don’t know who to comfort. You don’t think it’s your place to even do so.

It’s then that she turns to you, the lilac in her eyes shining underneath the dim kitchen lights. 

“You’re having a girl?”

It’s the first time she’s acknowledged the baby. You remember what he’d said in the car, as he’d gazed at the traffic with a forlorn expression. “She’s always wanted a girl.” He’d smiled in exhaustion before he’d turned to pinch your nose. “Now she gets two.”

You blink back at her and you nod. 

“Yes,” is all you can say. 

Her eyes soften, and she turns to occupy herself with the mess on the counter. 

Your gaze drift to the door as it shuts loudly behind him and you yearn for the man you love. You leave the kitchen quietly as you turn to look for him.

You find him seated at the bottom of the stairs, fiddling with the box in his hands.

The cigarette lights up his face momentarily as he brings the nicotine up to his face and he breathes out into the still air, shaking his head as he rests his arms on his knees.

He hears the front door open behind him and he knows it’s you. It could only be you.

Your smile is soft — nervous, even — as you close the screen door behind you gently. He puts the cigarette out before he scoots over a little, making room for you as you make your way down, and he laughs as you awkwardly situate yourself beside him. You pinch his bicep in fake irritation and he grins as he kisses your forehead in greeting. You sigh as you settle down beside him. 

“Are you okay?” he asks you. 

“Are you?” you retaliate. 

Your voice is soft. He thinks you must be getting sleepy. 

“Yeah, I'm good. Nothing I haven’t heard before.”

He doesn’t say anything else — looking out into the now quiet neighborhood instead. 

Soon, it would be loud again. Soon, the doors would open and people would make their way downtown — to pachinko parlors, and nightclubs, to convenience stores, and karaoke.

But right now, the air is still. Right now, Roppongi was surprisingly quiet. 

You reach for his hand in the flickering dark. You trace the lines on his palm. You trace the scars and the outline of his rings. You trace his name and you trace yours. You trace a heart in between. Neither of you says a word. But as you lean your head against his shoulder, you look out into the world and you wonder what he sees. The apartment complex he’d grown up in was worn down and dull. Yet it’s surrounded by bright lights. Everything was full of color. 

What was a child expected to do on their own in this hub of chaos? Where was a child expected to go? 

“She can’t stand the sight of me,” he says — breaking the stillness on his own.

“She thinks I corrupted Rindou,” he chuckles darkly at that. Your heart aches at his words.

“You didn’t.”

He pretends like he doesn’t hear you. 

“She thinks I’m gonna ruin your life too.” He glances at your belly. “Yours and hers.”

“You won’t,” you follow up — not bothering to entertain the thought.

He stares off, rubbing his hands together as he pulls his palm out and away from yours. 

“How do you know?”

“I won’t let you,” you whisper. 

You angle your knees towards him and you stare at the man before you with longing in your eyes. How hurt he was — sitting here beside you — how scarred and flawed, how abandoned and lost. 

You hold his face and you tilt your head in worry, and his heart races at the sight. It hurts. It hurts so bad. And he’s sorry. He’s sorry for all that he’s ever done. He’s sorry for what he might do. He’s sorry for any tears he’s made you shed. He doesn’t want to fail you too. 

You kiss his jaw and you pull him into you. His eyes widen at the words you utter against him. 

“It’s not your fault,” you say. 

He grips your dress. 

“It’s not your fault,” you repeat. 

He holds you tighter. 

He wants to believe you. He hopes that one day, he will. 

He drops his head to your shoulder. You hold him even tighter — you pull him in even closer. Your fingers run through the short strands of his hair and he kisses the exposed skin of your shoulder in silent appreciation. 

His mother watches the two of you from beyond the window. There’s a strange warmth that settles into her ache. 

You were good. You were so good. Maybe even too good. 

Too good for this family. Too pure for their hurt. 

He tells you he just needs a minute more, gesturing towards the cigarettes, and you nod as you stand. He kisses your hand before you make your way back up the stairs and you smooth the dark strands out of his face, gently stroking his cheek as he places a stick in between his lips. “Take your time,” you tell him. 

His mother waits for you in the living room. There’s a worn out tray on the chabudai before her, and you smile as you take a seat. She exhales as she pours the tea, and you thank her as she sets it down. 

“He’s never liked Sencha,” she tells you fondly as she stares at the cup in her hands. 

Yes, you want to say. I know that very well. 

But you want her to have this part of him — this little known fact that she’d managed to get a hold of. You want her to be a mother. You want her to be his mother. 

She traces the lip of the cup and you can’t help but ask her if everything was alright. Her quiet held meaning. Her silence meant questions. 

“Why are you with him?” she asks. It’s a blunt question — slightly aggressive in its nature — and you see her children in her. 

“I —”

She cuts you off before you’re able to explain. 

“He told me that you broke up with him, and rightfully so too.”

You wince a little at the wording. 

“But you’re here. You’re here and you’re good to him. Why are you good to him? Why him?” 

She tried, she really did try. But she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t get it. She can’t seem to wrap her mind around it at all. You’re a good girl. You seemed like a wonderful woman. So why her son? Why not anyone else? Why not spare yourself the heartache and the trouble?

She doesn’t understand why you’re here instead.

Ran stands in the darkness of the hallway as he listens in. The cigarette pack is crushed beneath his grip and he regrets not making more noise when coming in. 

This was not good. 

This was not good at all. 

He tilts his head up towards the ceiling and curses his mother’s inability to feign ignorance. 

He could leave.

He could walk out and wait till the conversation was over and the two of you had moved on before he came back inside. But there’s a vile part of him that wants to hear your truth. There’s a sick part of him that wants you to make him hurt. Why were you with him? Why were you here at all?

You hum as your gaze drifts to the photos she had lined up near the tv. There’s a picture of the two boys outside. Their grins are wide and their hair a brilliant blonde. You smile softly because you know he despises his natural hair color. You know he hates it because of his father. And you know that Rindou had been too young to remember anything of the man. But Ran knew enough to detest him. He knew enough to never go back to blonde. You look at another photo, and you think he must be in his twenties. Rindou’s smile is the only one to be seen. Ran mirrors his mother — in stance and appearance. You think they must’ve argued before the photo was taken. And you wonder if he’d kept his hair long and dark to spite her — as if to say “Look at me. I’m everything you hate. Look at me. I look just like you.” He wanted her to look at him and wince. He wanted her to see herself in him. He was everything she failed at. He was everything she couldn’t control.

He’s beautiful, despite his pettiness, and you look back at her. 

Why are you with him? You smile at the loaded question. 

“Because I love him,” you tell her as much, and your chest blooms. It aches because you do — you love him. You love him. And sometimes you don’t know what to do with it all. Sometimes, you don’t know where you’re supposed to keep it — all this love; all these feelings. But you don’t think that’s what this is about.

You don’t think that this is what she’s asking about at all. 

You tell her she’d done well. You tell her that both of her boys were good men — that they were respected and revered and admired in their work. But then you tell her that if she kept holding on to the past — if she kept holding on to his past — then she’d only destroy them even further. Her eyes widen and you’re worried you might’ve crossed a line, but you keep going. You keep going because it’s not fair to him. You keep going because it isn’t fair to her.

“He’s riddled with guilt,” you say quietly. “It’s not his fault,” you say again. “It’s not.”

“Then whose is it?” She challenges. “Who is responsible?”

“I don’t know,” you respond. “But he’s not thirteen anymore. He’s not fifteen. He’s not twenty.”

She can’t help the slight sheen that covers her eyes — at all the time that she’d missed; at all that she’d desperately clung to. She’d been selfish in her approach. And she knows that it’s not her fault that she was alone. She knows it’s not her fault that she was always tired and away for work. But somewhere along the line, she’d forgotten that he’d had to bear the burden of raising himself and his brother — and that he’d done the best that any child could do. She looks away from you and she thinks he must’ve been scared. She looks away and she thinks he must be tired too. 

She holds her breath and you think she’s just like him in that regard — that they were both the type to shoulder their hurt and smile, as if everything was okay — as if the sharpness in their eyes didn’t dull and they weren’t affected by everything around them.

You can only imagine how isolated she must feel. You can only wonder how lonely it must be. 

Her gaze drifts back to your belly and you know she’s holding herself back. You know she wants to touch the baby — that she wants to seek comfort in a grandchild she’d only come to know about. It’s a lot to process. It’s a lot to take in. You silently ask her for permission as you reach for her thin fingers — placing her palm onto your stomach. To know that your oldest child had their own on the way and to realize that you had no place in any of it at all — it’s a damning feeling. And maybe she’d been a shit mother. Maybe she hadn’t done all that she should have. But she can’t help but wonder if it was too late. Would he let her be his mother? Would he let her be a grandmother? Was this all she’d come to know of the child?

She’s lost in her own thoughts when your brows furrow, and you wince when your baby kicks against her palm.

The woman before you starts to cry.

It’s quiet, the steadiness in which her tears stream down her face. They follow a common path – down the hollow of her eyes, down to the curved line of her mouth — down, down, down they go. 

“Forgive me,” she goes to say. You brush her apology off with a tired smile.

“She’s excited to meet her grandmother.” 

She blinks at you again – at your choice of words and the necessity of their timing – and she shakes her head at the irony. 

She laughs for the first time all night, and she decides that she doesn’t want you to see her cry anymore. 

The two of you sit together in the living room — your eyes fixed onto the tv and the late night game show.

Your lover makes his way back into the living room, looking away as he sits beside you. He pretends he didn’t hear a single word. He pretends he didn’t hear anything at all.

He pours himself a cup of Sencha, wincing at the flavor. 

His mother chuckles at the sight. 

Her hand doesn’t leave your belly. 

—

He takes you back to his place that night. You don’t object as you nod off in the car. You’re tired. You wonder if it’s always been like this for him — if he’s always felt at war in the very place he was supposed to belong. He reaches for your palm, fiddling with the emptiness of your ring finger as the red light washes over your figure. Your gaze is haunting and he falls in love with you all over — again and again, his heart falls victim to you. Again and again, he’s certain of his love for you.

The two of you don’t talk about tonight.

Not yet at least. Not right now. 

You lean into his side on the way up to his penthouse. He wraps an arm around your waist and strokes your jaw.

Still, you don’t say much. Still, you don’t say anything about it at all.

You’d resorted to sleeping in the guest bedroom after the two of you had initially split. On days that you’d had early appointments — on nights that you’d felt sick and alone — he’d preferred that you stay with him. You didn’t mind at all. His presence was comforting — safe and reassuring. 

He’d played along with the front you’d put up at first. He’d let you shut the door and pretend to sleep on your own for a day or two. It didn’t take long for him to find his way back to your side. It didn’t take long for you to fall asleep in his arms while he drooled into the pillow overhead and you clutched his shirt tight.

But this time, when he unlocks the door and you make your way over to the guest bedroom, all he does is kiss your forehead in passing. All he does is stroke your cheek in goodbye. He doesn’t tease you at the entry way. He doesn’t fake a scene or hold you tight.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” is all he says.

You watch as he heads to his bedroom instead — you feel lonelier than you’d felt the first night you’d slept alone. 

And he knew you deserved better. He knew he didn’t think this through. He knew that this was too much — that this was all too much for the both of you. And he knew that any excess stress right now wouldn’t be good for you at all. 

But his head hurt, and his chest ached, and his shoulders were strained under the weight of all his burdens. 

You stare at him in concern, eyes filled with worry and hurt — and you want him back. 

You want your lover back. 

You sit in the guest bedroom after you’d washed and changed and you eye the clock in a daze. You think an hour passes. Maybe more.

Your daughter kicks impatiently and you exhale at the pressure, rubbing at the spot as though to comfort her. 

“Yes, I know,” you tell her. “I know, baby.” I know.

You don’t bother knocking on his door as you make your way into the master bedroom. It’s dark, save for the twinkling lights of the city below. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his back facing the door as he hunches over — his hands covering his face. Slowly, you climb onto your side of the bed. Your palms smooth over the untouched blankets and you eye your pillow on his side of the bed. 

It’s been a while since you've slept here. It’s been a while since you’ve (more or less) split.

You sit on your knees directly behind him and you grip the sheets beside you as you let your forehead fall onto his back.

“Ran?” you whisper.

His muscles tense, but he doesn’t respond to you otherwise.

“Baby,” you say.

“Come back,” you nearly beg.

You trail a finger down his spine — finger smoothing over every ridge; heart aching with every touch. 

He turns to you then, slightly, as he peers over his shoulder.

Your eyes are wide and hopeful, and he shakes his head at the sight. 

“No good for you. I’m no good.”

“Yes, you are.”

There’s a slight tremble to his shoulders and you press your cheek to his back as you lean against him.

You wrap one arm around his waist, stroking the skin of his side. It’s too much. His heart can only take so much. 

“It’s okay,” you mutter, lips moving against his back. It’s not your fault. It’s not. You did good. You did well. You’re a good man, you tell him. And I love you, you say against him.

He stills. 

You say it again.

“I love you.”

He looks down at his palm — at the small ring settled down in the center. It sparkles in the dark and he closes his fist against it at the sight.

“Marry me then,” he says — as though it’s a challenge — as though he’s given up on any chance of you saying yes.

“Okay,” you whisper.

His brows furrow in confusion. He’s not sure he heard you right. He doesn’t know if you understand.

He turns to you immediately. Adoration lines his eyes as he stares at you and his gaze darkens as his nerves are shot with fear.

“What?”

Don’t play with me, his gaze seemed to say. Don’t mess with me right now. Not you. Please not you.

Your hand strokes the soft stubble on his cheek and you smile. It’s tired and loving, genuine and you. 

“Ask me again,” you say as he stares. He’s quick to oblige — quick to fulfill your request.

He’s scared you’re going to fade away. He’s scared you might still leave. 

“Marry me,” he pleads. “Marry me. Please.”

You think he’s dizzy from all that he’s feeling. You think he’s high off of everything that’s happened. But you know his heart and you know yours, and you know there’s only so much he can take. You know there’s only so much hurt he can handle.

And he loves you. He loves you. He adores you. 

“Yes,” you whisper, and you try not to cry as he slips the ring onto your finger. 

“Yeah?” he mutters, eyes hazy as he stares into your own.

“Yes,” you say again. “Yes.”

He kisses you then, with need and want.

He kisses you like you’re the love of his life.

He kisses you like you’re the mother of his child.

He kisses you like he wants to marry you — like he fully intends on doing so too. 

It’s been eight months too long, but you lay beside him on your side of the bed, and he smiles down at you in love and need. 

He kisses you once more as you whine for sleep, and he smiles against your lips at the complaint. Just one more, he says. Just one more, I promise. You push at his face and he laughs at your insistence. You feel your daughter move soon after, and you reach for his wrist, placing your palm on top of his as you guide him to her. As you always would. As you always will.

The two of you would enter parenthood soon — a marriage would follow soon after. You’re both a little scared. You’re both a little terrified. And you know he can’t help but think of all the ways it could go wrong. You know he’s afraid he’ll be the one to screw it all up — quick to take the blame; quick to deny himself the benefit of the doubt.

But you fit your hand in his and you hold on tight.

You trust him, and he trusts you. 

You love him, and he loves you. 

---

I'm so scared of threatening smiley faces

13 - Blackmail

Masterlist - Previous - Next

Author Note: Threatening smile emojis are a form of tough love 🥰

Taglist: @starryeyedkoko @kay-stryker @sunsinrinn @ablackswansweet @im-bili @sammybeefangirls

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