It’s up to you if he would even consider wearing it but I’ve always had a thing for promise rings. Nothing religious but it’s more so the idea of a future with someone you love without the stresses of marriage.
Would Micheal accept one from his S/O to wear? Would he in turn give his partner one? Something a little fluffy for you! 💕
So this took a bit of a turn from the prompt, but it’s along the same lines maybe? I don’t see Michael being one to wear jewelry but scars? Absolutely.
I’ve been working on this for days, I hope you like it!
Rating: SFW
TW: Scarification/Knife Play/Michael is honestly his own warning
Carving
You sigh as you step under the steaming hot spray of the shower, trying and failing to wash away the stress of the last couple of days. Work has been so stressful, and to top it off, Michael hasn’t been home in a week—off doing God knows what to God knows who. Free, untamed, wild.
Shaking away the thoughts of carnage, you get to work cleaning yourself up, soaping up your loofah with your favorite body wash, running it over your body, pausing at your lower stomach, fingers running over the scars Michael left there toward the beginning of your relationship.
Sometimes it bothers you that he marked you, but you had no claim on him. He was free, unclaimed. Nothing to say he’s yours.
Your thoughts are interrupted as the shower curtain is suddenly yanked back with a metallic scrape, and you nearly jump out of your skin, pulse skyrocketing before you realize it’s just Michael—naked, save for streaks of dirt and gore.
“God, Mikey, you scared me,” you scold him playfully as you step backwards to make room for him to climb into the shower with you. He steps into the tub and gets under the spray with a low, pleased moan, his eyes slipping closed and his shoulders relaxing. His brow unfurrows, and his jaw goes slack from its usual clench.
He looks more human than Shape in this rare moment, and the beauty of it makes your heart clench in your chest. You’re the only one who gets to see him like this and live.
You watch as the streams of water flowing down his skin run red, following the path of the pink-tinged droplets trailing down his skin and onto the tile below, swirling down the drain. His eyes open, cold and expressionless as his gaze rakes over your body for a few seconds before he pulls you close to his chest in a sudden embrace. You go willingly, placing your cheek against his chest without care for the carnage on his flesh, or his smell.
Michael rests his head on top of yours, taking a deep inhale of your hair before placing a kiss on the crown of your head. Soft, sweet, and completely unlike him.
Before you can pull away to ask him what was wrong, he quickly moves away from you, kneeling onto the tile below, looking up at you with eyes that are wide, vulnerable and scared—it’s the most emotion that you’ve ever seen out of them and it’s shaking you to your core. You have no idea what to expect. You cup his face, following the pink-tinged droplets of water on his cheeks with your fingertips, hoping to soothe whatever was troubling him.
Michael lifts his shaking, crimson-stained fingertips to your hips, giving them a gentle squeeze before his gaze drifts over his claim on you—the ‘MAM’ carved into your lower belly all those years ago. He traces along the raised edges and indentation, over each letter, letting out a shaking breath before he looks back up at you.
He grabs your hand from his face, and he uses your fingers to trace over his initials again without breaking eye contact. Once you’ve felt all the letters, he lifts the same hand to his chest, right over his heart, and starts tracing a slow pattern. You give him a confused look, and he drops your hand, reaching for the edge of the tub, and grabs his beloved blade (that you didn’t even notice he’d brought with him). He presses the hilt of the knife into your hand, closing your fingers around it, and placing the sharp tip against the flesh of his left pectoral—right over his heart.
“Yours,” he says, low and raspy and so beautiful that it makes you ache. Your eyes widen when you realize that he wants you to return the favor and carve your initials into him. Warmth blooms in your chest. This was definitely his way of confessing his love for you.
You steel yourself with a deep, shaking breath, and press the tip of the blade into his skin, blood pearling up as his flesh parts like blooming red petals with the shape of your first initial. He only flinches slightly, eyes leaving yours to peer down at your work before looking back up at you as you work.
Once you’re done, you sit the blade back down on the side of the tub, and kneel down next to him, rubbing your lips over your claim on him. He grabs you by the chin, and pulls you into a deep, delicious kiss that has you melting into him in two seconds flat.
He is yours, and you are his. No rings or government official papers to prove it, just a scar over his heart.
