#hurtcomfort

[kacklepop]

(the it's all good man at the end is supposed to be Simon RIP)

Ryland Grace gets his glasses 🫪

(BLOODY MARY REVERSE AU)

[sukunasleftbanana]

upset over sukuna's hands :(

You never expected hands to make you sad.

People always talked about Sukuna like he was intimidating. Too tall, too serious, tattoos crawling up his arms, piercings, and that permanent annoyed expression. But nobody ever mentioned his hands.

It happened randomly. You were stretched out on his couch while he worked on an assignment, his laptop balanced on his knee. Yuji was asleep in the other room after refusing bedtime three separate times. You weren’t even doing anything, just lying there with your cheek against the armrest, watching him.

His sleeves were rolled up, and his hands moved over the keyboard. You stared for too long because they did not match him. 

Not really.

His knuckles had tiny pale lines across them, old cuts. One thicker scar sat near the base of his thumb. His nails were short and uneven, and the skin around his joints was dry. His fingers looked rough and used. Not ugly. Just worked.

Warehouse shifts, carrying boxes, opening things with his hands because he never bothered getting tools, cooking, washing dishes, holding Yuji’s tiny shoes while yelling at him to stand still, fixing Choso’s bike, and probably carrying too much for too long.

You looked down at your own hands, soft with little rings and tiny scars from paper cuts and cooking, and suddenly your chest hurt.

Sukuna glanced over. “Why are you staring.”

You blinked. “Nothing.”

“That face means something.”

You shook your head, and he went back to typing. Two minutes later, you spoke again. “Why are your hands like that?”

He stopped typing and slowly looked at you. “What does that mean.”

You sat up. “No, like…” You reached over and took one of his hands before he could pull away. He let you. You turned it over in your lap, his palm warm and rough. You traced one of the scars with your thumb.

“You work too hard.”

He stared at you, then looked away. “What.”

Your throat felt strange. You laughed awkwardly. “I dunno. I just… I don't know.” You pressed your thumb into his palm, and suddenly your eyes stung.

He noticed immediately. His expression shifted. “Oi.”

You looked away, and he responded by closing the laptop. “Why are you crying?”

“M’not.”

“You are.”

You sniffed, and it sounded ridiculous even to you. You whispered, “I just got sad.”

His eyebrows pulled together. “About my hand.”

You nodded once.

He looked genuinely confused. You swallowed. “I know this is dumb,” you murmured, tracing another scar. “But every time I see stuff like this, I think you do too much.”

His face stayed blank, so you kept going quietly.

“You work all day. You raise Yuji and Cho. You always pay. You fix everything, and…” Your voice softened. “Your hands look tired.”

Silence settled between you. Sukuna looked at you, then at his own hand resting in yours. For a moment, something in his expression shifted. Not dramatically, just a flicker of surprise, like nobody had ever looked at him and thought about him instead of what he could do.

He scoffed under his breath. “You’re weird.”

You nodded sadly. “I know.”

He stared at you for a few more seconds, then turned his hand and closed his fingers around yours. You froze. He looked away, the tips of his ears faintly pink.

“They’re just hands.”

You looked at him and whispered, “No.” 

When his eyes flicked back to you, you smiled softly. “They look like someone whose been trying really hard.”

His jaw tightened, the way it always did, like affection made him uncomfortable. Then he reached out, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you into him. You made a small, confused sound as he pressed your forehead against his shoulder.

“Stop looking at me like I’m dying.”

You laughed weakly. “M’ not.”

His hand rubbed your back once, slow and awkward. Then, quieter, he said, “It is not that bad.”

You nodded against him.

But later, when he was asleep, you held one of his hands against your cheek and thought that next time he came over, you were buying hand cream. Not because he needed it, but because somebody should take care of the hands that take care of everyone else.

Also, my sign to buy hand cream bc why tf are my hands so rough😭😭 Finally wrote something up, exams have literally drained my balls blue, I'm so DONE!!

[pawsizes]

⤿ your husband and his injuries

m.list:: jjk list

nanami was never the same after shibuya. it wasn’t just the loss of his physical appearance that changed him.

it hurt to hear his muffled sobs stirring behind closed doors, only for him to emerge stern-faced. every night.

when you placed a gentle hand upon his marbled one in assurance, it did not melt into yours. not like it used to. your husband from a year ago, would've interlaced fingers with a sickening endearment, soft kisses peppering among each bump of your caressed knuckle.

you were the first to adapt to his injuries. faster than him, dolefully. for example, standing on his right when speaking to him as he was hard of hearing on the left. scuffing slippers intentionally when approaching to not startle his rattled nervous system. replacing his shirts with a rich cotton-bamboo blend for his sensitive flushed skin. taking over cooking duties, restricting the amount of culinary freedom he had in the kitchen if he tried to help, you knew better than to let his hardened fingers tangle with a knife.

your husband desperately clung to every tradition he had before his injury, hoping to keep himself anchored to who he once was. one of which, refusing to look unkempt. every passing of a reflective surface led to a pathetic churn from the bottom of his heart, like he was no longer worthy of the rich relationship that thrived so effortlessly with his old face. he figured the least he could do to compensate for his ugly disfigurement was be presentable at all times for you.

so, when you found him wrestling with the ivory buttons of his shirt. you executed the usual routine in commiserate heartache.

you intentionally dragged the sole of your foot, allowing the scuff to announce your presence before appearing in his blind spot.

his fingers only fumbled faster in a one-sided race to finish before you reached him. by no surprise, you beat him.

“you don’t need to rush, ken.” you murmured gently tending to his embarrassment.

his hands dropped in surrendering defeat allowing you to take the wheel. in a swift, almost insulting motion, you had buttoned the rest of his shirt leaving his collar comfortably loose.

“thank you, sweetheart...” his lone eye stayed glued to his tainted reflection, meeting yours in the glass for a fraction of a second.

instinctively, his gaze dropped to the floor pathetically. completely retreating from yours. he was terrified of what you might find if you lingered on his eye a second too long.

maybe you would mourn his old face.

you gently caught his chin, thumb brushing the glassy texture as you coaxed his head upright until he was forced to look at you.

“of course... you look great.”

oh how those sacred words unravelled his coarse mind time and time again, slicing mercilessly through that self-loathing armour of his.

he found something terrifyingly beautiful in your undying devotion to him. nanami had never once questioned your loyalty. he knew you meant what you said.

yet, acknowledging how your wedding vows still laced your every word. every action. every thought. it was a sobering frightening realisation of how lucky he was to have you. a terrifying miracle.

you pressed a long adoring kiss against his lips. equal pressure on his good and scarred side. a warm exhale left his nose, pillowing against your face.

you had adjusted yourself to the front of his torso, aware of how difficult it was for him to simply lean left or right.

per usual, he melted into your grounding routine.

only one arm tightened at his will. your right hand laid softly against the chest of his crisp cotton shirt, while your left hand caressed the smooth curve of his good ear.

this was another adaptation you picked up on. even in the heat of the moment, you would never dare to hurt him. every movement you took during intimacy was carefully curated for his comfort. you never leaned your full weight on the ruined left-side of his body. you never ripped his clothes off in arrogant lust. your husband took notice of these habits you succumbed to, never verbalising his gratitude out of the shame, he was the reason you had to change.

and of course, the sudden shift of your natural embrace had stung his heart far more deeply than his body ever could. a horrible cue to mourn the carefree wife you once allowed yourself to be.

god... how he wanted to pull you flush against him. to wrap his arms round your waist tightly. both arms. to lift you off your feet, twirl you around until that familiar bubble of laughter seethed into his ears like music.

yet he knew in a bitter uncertainty that those moments were permanently bound to the man a year ago.

instead, he simply collapsed into the reality of what he could do.

he attempted to bury his face into the crook of your neck. the elasticity of his skin was completely rid. it was not a graceful movement, it was stiff. but he made it work.

a cultivated sway caught momentum in the embrace.

“my love...” he spoke rasping into your hair. “what you have done for me this past year. i...i don’t know if i can ever repay it.”

“oh darling..." you leaned your head back just enough to face his sorry gaze. "there is no debt to repay."

his eye, a dull ember, stayed low with the familiar dishonour seeping into that troubled head of his.

"when i married you, i promised in sickness and health. my love for you has not faltered since. it never will, kento." you hushed, searching his lone hazel eye. "i know you’d do the same for me.”

it was only when your hand lifted to rest against the left side of his face in reminder that your words applied to every part of him, did he drag to meet those earnest, doting orbs of yours.

the surface of his skin felt artifical under your fingers. the overlapping folds of shiny, glassy ridges swirling like a rosy marble. it did not bother you. this ‘imperfection’ is what brought your husband back home to you after all. and you did your utmost best to remind him daily.

a strained unnatural tug formed at his lips, a lop-siding grin growing from the toughened skin around his mouth.

“what are you smiling at?” you mirrored his smile with a questioning laugh.

“just...” he let out a gravelly huff. “how couples often call eachother their ‘better half’. i always thought it was something of sentimental nonsense. now look at me...

a man stripped of his literal physical half.”

his eye met yours, significantly glossier than before.

“and now i am sure i can conform to those sentiments my dear. you are my better half. i mean it in the most literal sense sweetheart. i see how you naturally step to my blind spot when we walk on the streets so i'm not spooked by fast walkers. how when i’m too exhausted to execute simple mundane tasks. you step in before i can feel useless. and... your little slipper thing. you make up for the half of my body i lost.”

he let out a grounding uneven breath, his right hand sliding up the cradle of your head before continuing.

“how you drag those feet to not startle me. god, you notice everything my love... i could go on forever listing everything you’ve changed for me. i want you to know i notice it all. my dear, i notice it all." there was no shame behind the sudden longing in his eye, he needed you to know that all the shame, disgust and contempt in the world could not compete with the expression of love for his wife.

the burning heat that welled in your eyes finally broke like a dam. streams trickled down your cheeks. his good hand traced your hair, long fingers untangling strands. bringing a sliver toward his face. he shut his eyes in bliss, burying his nose against your crown as he breathed you in, like you were a lifeline he clung so shamelessly to.

your tears began to spot his white shirt, black smudges spreading by the second. “stop... my mascara... kento, stop.” you mutter against his hard thumping chest in between a sob and laugh.

but your husband did not let you pull away. instead, he lowered his head to yours, hovering before his seared left cheek rested upon your crown, letting his two worlds merge.

“it is just a shirt.” a low retort grumbled from him. “it can be washed. i care entirely about the woman who is ruining it.”

the loving sway found its way back to your intertwined bodies. “let it smudge...”

his eye closed in beautitude. an unknowing tear squeezed out as he did, it trickled pensively down the healthy undereye, heaving over his prominent nosebridge, easing onto the bordered terrain of his burn, it zig-zagged between the salmon pathways of the uneven texture before dripping down to your scalp in finality. coincidentally, it was a beautiful analogy of those strained emotions passed through all parts of him in longed recognition. how it passed through his good half, bad half.

then... better half.

[rockwlove]

┃ 𑣲.ᐟ "THE LADY IN MY LIFE"

synopsis: while waiting for your boyfriend to finish a recording session, you unfortunately encounter joe, who implants the idea in your head that you are slowly ruining michael’s career. this causes you to slowly spiral and distance yourself from michael, which he quickly notices.

part two

pairings: thriller era michael jackson x !fem reader

contents: anxious reader, previously established relationship, mentions of joe jackson, anxious habits, angsty,

a/n: i previously published this on my other blog but i took it down because my other blog was more anime focused but i also just wanted to start over yk!! I rewrote some stuff and improved the fic. I enjoy writing so much. I previously wrote and it kinda felt like a chore but my obsession with michael makes it so easyyy!! comment if you are interested in being included in my taglist!

𑣲

Blood rushed to your face and through your ears as Joe’s harsh words came like a slap. “You’re in the way. Michael’s success rides on one thing; time,.” Ouch. A pause fell over the two of you as his eyes cold scanned over your broken expression. His lip curved into a slight smile before he spat out, “That’s something you selfishly steal from him.” Joe turned on his heels before the lock of the Jackson’s shared family mansion clicked. “If you know what’s best for him... you would let him go.” Joe smiled to himself and walked up the stairs, briefly leaving you alone with your swirling thoughts. Joe and you never freely spoke. Truth be told, you were scared of his intimidating presence ever since your first tense interaction. Michael introduced you to his family after months of sneaking you around the Hayvenhurst estate and calling you a ‘new friend’. Despite the quiet but giggly whispers you two shared, his family immediately knew by the way his eyes sparkled when they meet yours. He couldn’t keep your name out of his mouth for more than ten minutes and more importantly he couldn't keep you off his mind. To majority of his family it was love. They were over the moon to see a new bubbly side of Michael due to your presence. Unfortunately to Joe it was greed. He swore he saw glimmers of greed and lust in your eyes and he claimed that he would be damned if a “money hungry slut” ruined his son’s career. Of course you never heard this because Michael was sure to protect your ears from the sickening comments of his father. What he couldn’t protect you from was the hostile energy his father exuded when he first met you. Joe’s piercing eyes judged you relentlessly which caused you to uncomfortably shift in place. The rest of his family was the kindest it was just Joe that caused your skin to crawl at his presence. To solve this you avoided him to the best of your ability until one day you just couldn’t. Michael told you to come over to Hayvenhurst after he finished recording but due to his session running overtime you arrived early and had to wait awhile. You intended to go greet his mother and hang out in his room until he came home but you had the misfortune of interacting with Joe. His words swirled in your mind before you felt a large warm hand rest on your lower back. “Hey baby, what were you two talking about?” Michael whispered as he placed an innocent kiss on the top of your head. Michael waited for your response as his eyes followed his father’s figure until he disappeared around a corner upstairs. You remained still as your teeth pulled your bottom lip in.

You suddenly became hyper aware of Michaels presence which caused you to clear you throat before voicing with a forced smile, “He was just saying hi.” Michaels hands found yours as he turned you towards him. His soft eyes scanned over your face. Michael was such a caring soul and worrying him was the last thing you’d ever want. To avoid conflict and wasting time dealing with such a small issue, you quickly reassured him. “Just a hi.” Only it wasn’t a small issue at all. The words swirled in your mind that night as you tried to finally rest. “Let him go” “You’re in the way” “Selfish” You unintentionally internalized every single word. You’d already previous suffered with anxiety. The weight of possibly ruining your lovers music dreams crushed you. Joe’s suggestion to leave Michael completely broke you but despite the cruelness of the words you would never do that. Right? You loved your boyfriend too much to even be away from him for as little as a week, but on the other hand you also loved to see him passionately pursuing his dreams. It all felt like a moral dilemma. If you left him then he would be heartbroken but he could actively and successfully thrive more in his career. On the other hand if you stayed with him then you would weigh him down with the responsibilities of a relationship which could hold him back. Your mind wandered before you knew it and you found yourself impulsively self soothing. Your hand would constantly rub over your forearm on late nights like this and your foot would graze over your calf repetitively until you could feel the friction causing a burn to form. These methods were to prevent your mind from running circles around you and to prevent yourself from selfishly venting to Michael.

You didn’t want to give him reason to worry but your behavior made it inevitable. Michael started to worry about you when he realized that you didn’t want to come over anymore. It started with small excuses. “I would love to go but I have a dance class later.” Michael’s lip formed into a thin flat line. “I thought your instructor was on a pregnancy leave.” You could feel Michaels eyes suspiously burning into you. You inhaled deeply as your eyes stared past him. “She recommended her regulars a similar instructor” Michael pouted at this. “Mamas please, It’ll be quick. Swear. Joe just wants us to run through our routine a few times and we’re done. Thirty minutes max.” Your face twisted at the mention of Joe and you felt the pit of anxiety swell in your stomach. You knew your logic didn’t match reality. Joe was a shit talker who did everything on the premises of money. In Joe's eyes Michael’s relationship with you was considered distracting, which allegedly blocked Michaels focus on the group and the profit he was making off his solo album. He believed that instead of lounging around with you, he could've been practicing or promoting his solo album. It was all about the money. You knew his concenrn weren't true but you couldn’t help your overthinking. Realistically Joe couldn’t do anything to you. He couldn’t make Michael break up with you because that wasn’t in his power and he definitely couldn’t change Michaels feelings towards you. He was all talk. Your alleged ‘negative’ influence on Michaels career was non existing but you didn’t know that. The cunning tone in which Joe spoke was so assuring to the point where you would’ve thought that Michael vented to joe about his true feeling towards you. Michael noticed your contorted expression and reluctantly dropped it while simultaneously making a mental note at your unusual behavior. You would’ve usually been jumping at the idea of visiting Hayvenhurst, in fact, you’d usually go over when Michael was busy. You loved to talk to his mom and hang out in his room.

“If you don’t want to go it’s fine. I’ll be back later mk?” His head ducked down as he placed a light kiss on your cheek. These small excuses led up to bolder rejections of quality time. He confirmed that something was truly wrong when you denied hanging out with his family at the studio. Michael had stopped by your place to see you before a studio session. He begged you to come with him because some of his family would be there, and the more he thought about it, the more he realized you hadn’t visited or spent time with his family in a while. He missed you. A few of his brothers decided to accompany Michael to the studio while he recorded for a good time. Michael didn’t tell you it was only his brothers, he only said “some of my families going to be there.”

“I think I’ll pass this time baby,” Michael audibly reacted with an exasperated sigh. “You passed last time and the time before that, my family wants to see you. I’m sure they miss you. I miss you." A nervous laugh fell from your lips. You knew he wasn’t lying. His family loved you dearly and you enjoyed time with them but Joseph’s cruel words clouded your judgment. “Next time, promise! I have to go run some errands and I want to be home early tonight.” The excuses were becoming less elaborate and more obvious. It had been weeks since you rejected Michael’s request to visit his family along side him. If you were being completely honest with yourself you had began to believe Joe. Michael was becoming something huge and in hindsight a relationship was a lot of work. Hypothetically, Michael would come home late from the studio and still have to adhere to the responsibilities of a relationship. The guilt of distracting your boyfriend from his career got so bad that you felt horrible for staying up late in hopes of being able to hear his laugh over the phone or even debrief about your day because you feared exhausting him even further. He held so much on his plate that adding any responsibility felt evil. The excuses turned into small changes in the way you loved. When you noticed Michael becoming short with his staff from stressful days you followed suit and fell back, if you noticed him zoned out and humming to a beat you left him completely uninterrupted in fear of ruining his creative process and you stopped being so clingy in a sense.

This was a huge upset on Michael’s end. As far as he was concerned, being clingy was the best quality a partner could have. It allowed him to be constantly reassured even if it wasn’t verbal. He enjoyed the way your head would rest in his lap as he rhythmically massages new instrumentals of his songs into your scalp or the way you would massage his shoulders when you felt him getting overwhelmed with scheduling compliments. It’s what he loved about you. Unfortunately you on the other hand found it impossible to allow yourself to breathe freely around your boyfriend due to the constant pressure of ruining his career. Your boyfriend noticed this huge change in addition to the rejections of visiting his family. He found it strange that you’d suddenly became so distant in a relationship that you both valued with your lives. It was eating at him. He overthought almost every predicament that came to mind. Were you mad at him? Had he done something to upset you? Were you overwhelmed with his busy schedule? Did something happen that you aren’t comfortable sharing? He couldn’t put his finger on it. One night he decided to ask you in hopes mentioning the growing distance in your relationship he didn't want it to come across as forceful just a slight mention. He’d just finished pre-recording a promotional commercial for his upcoming album and he was drained. The drive to your place felt like a never ending road trip but as soon as arrived he smiled and made his way to your suite despite his eyelids becoming heavier with each step. “Hello?” His voice echoed off the empty halls of your apartment. He made his way inside, without complications of course due to his spare key. Your apartment was quiet and cozy, per usual but today it felt different. You usually had a slowed down vinyl spinning in the background to fill the apartment with some kind of noise or at least a tv playing with the latest news but today, nothing. The sound of a metal spoon repeatedly tapping glass lured Michael into the kitchen where he found you blankly staring into your mug. “Baby?” Your head quickly snapped towards the sound before you placed a fake smile onto your face. “Hey Mich,” You said as you walked over and placed a light kiss on his jaw. His hands found your waist where they rested. Meanwhile his tired gaze scanned the dark kitchen suspiciously. “Why’s it so gloomy and quiet in here? I thought you were off to bed already.” You nervously laughed and shrugged before slipping out of his embrace. You turn around and grab your cup of tea. Your hands kept a steady grip on the cup as your boyfriend watched you cautiously sip the tea. “I was off to bed actually.. long day ahead tomorrow.” Michael’s lip formed into a deep pout. “You’ve been so busy recently. I feel like you’ve had a lot of long days. We need to go on a date and spend time together before my album releases so you won’t miss me too much when I’m swamped in tours.” He leaned back onto the kitchen counter as he joked about the last part but a serious expression formed on your face. Your lips pursed into a thin line before rudely muttering, “You’re already swamped in enough work as is.” As soon as the words left your mouth you regretted it. Not because it wasn’t true but because you could see the hurt settling into his face. Despite your boyfriend’s common calmness and patience that went into communicating with you, he instantly got defensive. “Woah.. I haven’t been swamped in work to the point where I’m neglecting us.” He stated before quickly asking a rhetorical.

“Have I?” His eyes burned into you for an answer but your gaze fell to the kitchen counters. You placed your mug down and your finger nails subconsciously rested in between your teeth. Michael noticed the skin around your nails and how it was chewed raw. Your once healthy nails were now reduced to a jagged worn down mess.

Were you anxious? This was becoming alarming to Michael. You’d never been hesitant to speak your mind or express yourself in the slightest. Michael ran his hand through his hair as confusion set in. “Baby what’s going on? I mean with everything. You’ve been distant.“ He said throwing his hands up.

“You don’t want to come over anymore, I can’t get you to talk to me about the simplest things and now you’re practically saying I’m ignoring yo- Us. Not to mention I can practically sense your anxiety radiating off of you."

You shook your head. “Nothings wrong.. well...I just" You glanced at him while purposely avoiding eye contact. Michael’s brows lifted at this but he stayed quiet, allowing you to finish. “I just feel like.. you’re doing so well in your career.” Michael cut you off before you could even finish. “What does that have to do with anything?” Your heart sped up as your thoughts raced through your mind. Before you could even think you blurted out. “I think we should break up.”

© rockwlove

[iicarusflew]

nine lives

tags: established relationship; marriage couple; domestic fluff; mention of previous miscarriages; mention of conceiving; fear of inadequacy; soft Valarr; devoted Valarr; akotsk universe; 

A year after your second miscarriage, you try to convince your husband for another child, another shot at happiness you both so desperately desire.

words: 4.1k

The room reeks of memories.

You are trying to find another word for it other than reek . It’s proving to be way harder than you anticipated. Reek. Thick and bulky and almost tangible… not bad , certainly, but burning in its intensity to the point of being uncomfortable. Almost for you to touch and fold and make a different shape, form a different mold of it. Your room smells like crushed flowers and the tarty sweetness of Arbour wine (Valarr’s favorite) and the fresh, piney smell of your cologne. The darkness of the room cowers over you, even as the drapers from your windows blow with every gust of wind—spilling the silver moonlight over the room every once in a while. The flickering darkness brings memories too. Good ones, scary, aching ones. One that feels like a distant memory of someone else.

Valarr shifts beside you, his face mashed half against the pillow, half resting on his own arm. Naked from waist up, the muscle of his arm bulks a little, makes an elegant curve of it as he rests it over the pillow, drawing it closer to his body. His hair is upturned, messed up, the silver strand glimmering like a dream. It’s dark in your room, but he’s so clear to you. So unimaginably clear, like a shadow of yourself. A part of your own body. Your face is mashed up against the pillow as well, looking at your husband with a storm brewing in your chest. Your eyes—unlike his closed ones—are open and prying, calculating, rationalizing.

You try to mimic his even breaths as you trace unintelligible lines across your abdomen. Your own breaths stuttering, heart racing as if you’d been running a hundred miles an hour. You cannot help but feel as if, even by only deciding what you’ve decided, you have broken the invisible shield of protection. You have exposed yourself to a newer, more uncertain future. 

You are scared to your bones.

Your index draws a line from your abdomen to your chest. A hundred different futures swirl and dance inside you.

It’s been two days. You haven’t come around to telling him yet.

You cannot help feeling as if you’re cheating a bit. As if you’re still toying with the idea. Which you aren’t. Not for a long time. It was a steady flow of progression after the christening of Daeron and Kiera’s daughter. You saw the reverence with which Valarr held his niece, traced the slope of the child’s nose as if it were a wonder in itself. You felt the strange, unearthly pain prick at your chest again, for a hundredth time. It didn’t help that the court had started whispering again, dragging up old wounds, picking at your faults like vultures atop a dead body.

You kept your smile at the sept despite the clawing wound in your heart. You held him in your arms and tried, very hard, not to let your failure cloud your blessings for the pure soul. You tried exceptionally hard not to stare at Valarr, to not see the warmth in his eyes as you held a child that was not yours.

But at the end of the day, as you were walking back to your chambers, your eyes drifted to him—catching him in his dreams. His mismatched eyes had that faraway look—the sky and the land meeting in some distant, aching place—and he’d shuddered when he caught you looking. He blushed, shook his head and started talking about the Tyroshi ships they’d been given as gifts.

But you saw it. The look. The dream. 

And something light and springy settled in your chest. You decided.

Two days.

You lift your hand to rest your palm against your husband’s cheek. The sharp jut of his cheekbone, the stubble littering his jaw, all paint a picture of him stark and clear even in darkness. Even in the shadows. It swirls another rush of painfully sweet memories inside you, another rush of hereafter as you’ve bared yourself to him. You know this as clear as day. You want his child. And you cannot imagine doing that with—or for—anyone else.

“I love you,” you say softly. “So much.”

Your heart jumps when you feel him smile. His lips puckered on your skin, a soft, effervescent kiss on your palm. 

“I should hope so,” he says, the smirk evident in his voice. “You married me, remember?”

You roll your eyes, smiling like it’s an instinct. Valarr draws you closer—eyes open now, soft, mismatched eyes, muddled with sleep and exhaustion—and settles his hand across your body, just where you were touching yourself a moment ago.

“I thought you were sleeping,” you say, only slightly embarrassed.

“Hmm… so did I.” He pecks you on the nose. “It’s fortunate that I was conscious, though. Otherwise I’d miss your confession.”

“Confession?” you snort. “I was just trying not to make it obvious that I am in it for your throne.”

“Or my golds.”

“Your stupid, handsome face.”

“My great, gigantic cock—”

He doesn’t get to finish it, because you start laughing too hard. The laughter scrapes out of you like air and you feel yourself getting more and more nauseous, giddier. Valarr scrunches his nose, thoroughly happy with himself. And the sight of him like this, eyes pushed closer, slightly narrowed in exhaustion, lips pulling in that adoring half smirk only illuminated by the flood of moonlight in your chambers, you can’t help filling the gap between your faces, laughing, kissing, melting.

You are unsure how the next part happens. It’s the mechanics of your bodies, forever gripping each other, chasing each other, settling against each other’s warmth like locks and keys work before your mind has any say in it. Valarr wraps his arm around your waist, you clutch onto his shoulders. He settles on his back, you lift your legs to straddle him. Hands bracketing his face as you lean in for a long, lingering kiss.

When you pull away, the remnants of the smile still present, he tells you he loves you too.

And you cannot help the next thing coming out of your mouth, unmistakably like a confession.

“I want to try again.”

Valarr raises his eyebrows. His eyes are confused only for a moment before they widen. Your breath hitches from the sudden sharpness. The sweet, tangy pang his expression brings. You sit up straighter almost the same time he grips you a little tighter.

“What?” he rasps.

You repeat your words. I want to try again. You roll your tongue around the words, like you’ve been doing for the past few weeks. You’ve been tasting the hope in them. Reading into their tones in your own head before you infect your husband’s mind as well.

Valarr is looking at you with wide eyes, lips parted in a terrified, helpless surprise. It scrapes at your heart. “My love, we’ve talked about this…”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Your spine melts. You rest your hand on his chest for leverage. “But I want to.”

“You don’t—did anyone say anything to you? Did my mother…”

“Your mother said nothing,” you say, licking your lips. “And the court always says something, so really, I do not register that as an issue anymore.”

“I’m so sorry,” he huffs out a breath. “I haven’t protected you.”

You narrow your eyes—feeling your eyes prick as the conversation slips into someplace you haven’t intended it to. “What? No, Valarr—” 

You grip his jaw and tilt his face. It tilts, the way you pull. You can feel him soften under your touch. Becoming malleable. “I did not mean… I want to get with child again. Your child. Our child.”

Under you, Valarr goes peculiarly still. The side of his face, the side you can see in the inconsistent light, is as immovable as the rest of him. But you see his eyes, raking all over you, still apprehensive. Still searching.

“It’s too dangerous,” he says, his words coming out clipped, as if he’s been holding onto them for too long. 

“I know.”

“I cannot lose you. I cannot watch you go through with losing a babe again.”

You tap your index against his jaw. You lean to brush your lips against his dry ones. His one blue eye is as watery as the narrow sea. And the dark one is just as deep. “You went through with it as well. I was not alone, remember?”

He shudders. And the weight of it—the weight of all those times before—presses down so heavily that you have to close your eyes or you fear the gravity will pull you under. Memory floats back to the last time, a year ago. Springtime. The smell of budding roses from the garden wafting into your bedchamber. Valarr had come back from a late council meeting to find you shivering against the unlit fireplace. You were in your nightshift, sobbing silently, and he had to have but one sparing glance at the blood red spot on your backside to know what had passed.

You had looked up to him. “I lost it,” you said, as if your child was a thing, not really a person. You hadn’t given your babe enough time in your womb to be a person. You were inadequate, a failure, a few steps closer to a complete disaster.

Valarr had a look on his face that you will remember to your dying breath, and you will never tell another. His face twisted, from grief—the familiar calm expression wrenched away from him. He ran to you, wrapped his arms around you as he sat down next to you. And you climbed into his lap, the blood from your miscarriage soaking his doublet, his breeches, his skin. And he rocked you, as if you were a child, crying against your hair and asking you to hold on, to have heart—because you were his heart. 

The two of you stayed like that—blood-soaked, devastated—the entire night. For one night you were only two people, outrageously young, sharing the loss of a child who never even took a breath. And when your maids came at the break of dawn, they found you wrapped together to a single point. They whispered about the two of you, cooing false sympathies, ruminating about curses and omens. About the stillbirths of your mother, about the poison in his Targaryen blood. The walls of the castles rang with rumors and you two were the stillpoint soaking the tragedy in as if it was your destiny.

You had a terrible fever the next day. It stretched into a month and not one of the maesters thought you’d make it out alive. They say that Valarr went mad, whenever he was not in front of you. Your ladies told you he shrieked at the Seven, that he threatened a maester, that he had broken his cousin Aerion’s finger when the man had joked at your expense.

“You are my heart,” Valarr says now, his words have the same hunger still, the same fear. 

“And you are mine.”

“I will not need an heir if I have you. I cannot lose you.”

“We can’t see the future, Valarr,” you say. “I might die even if I never get with child again.”

“Don’t—”

“And I might live if I try again. I am healthy. This time, I feel healthy.”

Valarr looks at you as if he’s trying to decide if you are real or not. The look on his face on Vaella’s blessing was wistful, hopeful, aching. You remember the softness raking the lines of his face when you held the baby. 

But now there is a peculiar stillness in his face. He clenches his jaw, the muscles there rippling in a grief too great, too heavy for a man as young as him. You know he resents himself for wanting a child with you even after all that tragedy. You know he thinks he’s a beast for that. 

You purse your lips, sitting entirely straight now, pelvis just on top of his groin. “I want your child, Valarr. I want you to spill inside me. I want to cross my legs and pray that your seed quickens. I want to feel those morning sicknesses. I want to feel our child stir inside me. I want to guide your palm across my belly and watch your face as our child kicks. I want it so bad, my love. I ache for it, I feel empty for it. Please, please, my only love. I want to. I want to teach him how to read. I want to teach our daughter how to write. I want to see them and find traces of ourselves in them. We are good people. We deserve this happiness.” You whisper the words against his skin, kissing and kissing him between words. You kiss his face all over—his eyelids, the jut of his cheekbones, the gap in his jaw. You feel the lazy stubbles graze your lips and you say all these against his skin so he could soak it all up, at once, you want and your hunger. 

There is a fever in you. Has been since you saw him first at a meadow in your father’s manor. You were talked of for prince Aerion, as per your status and your beauty, they said. But then Valarr saw you, and the world twisted and turned until you could be as you are now. You remember you wished for love, so much love, that you wouldn’t know what to do with it. You wished to be as close to him as humanely possible. You wish to stitch your lives together like you are making a poem.

“I want a boy that looks like you—”

You squeal embarrassingly loud, your breath hitched on your throat mid-sentence as you feel gravity fail you when Valarr—that madman —flips you around. Unexpectedly. Hurriedly. As his face hovers over you, eyes wide, hair tousled, you gasp. He looks just as breathless as you.

“Oh, fuck!” He cups your face, eyes scanning you. “Are you okay, my moon? Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?”

“No, you jester.” You huff. “I was… surprised.”

“I’m sorry.” He kisses your face, your nose, your forehead—mimicking the desperate keening you were doing not a minute ago. “I was so overwhelmed, love.”

You chuckle awkwardly. Valarr dips down to kiss your throat, his breath hot and fanning over your skin. “You are stirring me up, my love. I can’t—”

“We can,” you plead. “Say yes.”

You feel his weight relax against you. He rests his head in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. His lashes flutter against your skin as he closes his eyes. “I love you,” he says instead. “Do you know why I love you?”

“Because I am pushy and exhausting?”

His teeth graze along the line of your neck. “Do not talk about my wife like that.”

You laugh. “Aright. Alright.”

“She is a vision. She is extraordinary.”

“Why do you love me, husband?”

“Because you are real. You look at me and you see a man. You want a child because you think we are good people. There is no one else who’d see me and not think about that bloody throne. I forget about the throne when I am with you. I forget my name.”

“Valarr,” you say softly, your heart skidding to a dangerously slow pace. Less blood flowing in your body, only nerves. Only fireworks. “My Valarr.”

“I want to give you everything. The things an ordinary man gives his wife.” He grips you tighter, burrows his face in your hair with more urgency. “But I am afraid that it’s my blood that’s causing…”

“Shh.” You wrap your hands around his shoulder, maneuver your body so you are even closer to him. “No.”

“You don’t know…”

“I do,” you say firmly. “No.”

He stays still. Like this. Wrapped up in you like a blanket. You stay still with him and inhale, taking in his scent—that sweet, humane mixture of both your skins. For a while you only feel his breaths working up and down his lungs. His heartbeats thudding in its own mechanical way. His silence has your answer, aching and pulling. And you feel your heart hammering inside your chest as you recognise his soft moan, the softest yes. 

“You should hear about my future plans, you know,” you say against him. “I want to keep you around for all the gory details. There’s going to be vomiting, and water in the feet, itchy skins, and—”

“And I’ll stay for it all.” He settles a little on top of you, his weight pressing sweetly. You have this memorised, too. His weight. The smell of mint and musk and something that escapes when you are together like this—twisted like one being. “I’ll take leave from the council. I will kiss your feet everyday.”

“They’ll think me a witch.”

“Well, you have bewitched me. I have been at your mercy for a long, long time.”

You bite down your lower lip, staring. There’s a soft buzzing across your abdomen, trailing from the hollow of your pelvis to your ribcage. The trickling, electrifying intensity and it feels like excitement as it settles on your chest and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, spreading your legs to pull him closer with more intent, with more suggestiveness.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

There is a horrible, dark gash running from the side of his right shoulder to his throat, its shape like a half moon. You trail it with your index, absentmindedly remembering the day he got this. Your strangled cries on Matarys’ shoulder when they brought him from the battlefield. You remember hating him, you remember screaming that you’d never forgive him if he died. 

“You could die too, you know,” you say softly. “On battlefield, or in bed from natural sickness. A plague. But that is not a reason to stop living, husband.”

This is a new kind of danger you invite to your mind when you love someone. You can’t stop thinking about everything going wrong. Sometimes you think that love and fear of death come hand to hand. You have never been more in love with your husband, you have never been more afraid. “You tell me something now,” you whisper to counteract your thoughts. “Something you have thought, against your fears, about our future.”

Valarr traces your hairline, twists his finger to a loose strand. “You know them. Riding horses, teaching them how to read, taking them everywhere I go on my shoulder.”

You nod. You want more. You need more to fight this wretched fear of inadequacy, you still need to convince yourself it will be worth everything.

“I have this… another scene playing inside my head,” Valarr continues, his voice trembling. It’s barely perceptible, but oh you hear it well. “We are arguing in our bedchamber, over there, by the fire, and he is playing on the floor with his massive collection of toys.”

“Why are we arguing?”

“I do not know—something inconspicuous. Maybe because you haven’t told me that Aerion was antagonising you.”

“That would be because you’d do something irresponsibly rash.”

“You’re my wife .”

“Your wife who is capable enough to take care of herself. And anyhow, we are possibly arguing about how you jump headfirst into any roguery Aerion pulls without so much of a second thought and now that you have a son along with a wife , it’s your duty to—be more—more responsible and mature—”

You are stopped again by his kiss. You chuckle into it, but he doesn’t. He is intense and melting into you and his tongue slips past your lips and his hands are on your hair and it’s good, it’s so good. You gasp with a wet sound when you pull apart.

“Alright. Alright. We are arguing, we’re mad and we are nearly hissing because we do not want to scare him. But kids are perceptive, are they not? He understands that we are angry and he’s trying to divert us. But it’s just making things worse. We’re at the height of it all and you have that mournful look on your face and I am almost about to combust and he—when he sees no other recluse—screams for our attention. And we snap our head, angry, and ready to yell but then—” his voice drops down. “But then I see him, eyes welling up, eyes like yours, and I… I stare at you to find you already reaching out to him… and suddenly we can’t remember what we were fighting about, why it seemed important. Suddenly there’s so much love we can’t see beyond it. And you scoop him up and I pull you both in and—we bask in that love. That’s all. That’s all, my darling.”

You trace your fingertips along his jaw. “That’s lovely. I’d… I’d like that.”

You would. And now you grip him tighter to pull him in. Instinctively, like a memory, twist your legs around his so you touch where it feels necessary. Feels like a necessity. You are bare underneath the soft silk nightdress, and there’s a thrill in knowing how he likes that, how you dress a certain way so he can undress you a certain way. 

You let out a surprised, disdainful huff when Valarr pushes your hands aside and makes them rest on the side of face. Your hips buck to meet his, but he resists that, too. He’s leaving kisses when you huff again, whispering. Whispering.

“Shh. My baby, my darling girl, I will make love to you. I’ll make love to you so good.” As if he wants to prove he’ll make good on his promise, he leaves the grip on your wrist to run his hands along the curves of your body. Stopping at the hollow of your pelvis, dips his finger just on the edge of your cunt. You moan. But he doesn’t linger. He moves his hand, cups your breast momentarily, before holding your face, tilting it so he can whisper directly to your ear what he’s going to do to you, how many times he’ll repeat that  His voice is low and raspy and… dirty . Brimming with intent. He promises more. You buck your hips. He promises more. “We’ll take it slow. We’ll make it last. I just need to look at you first.”

He kisses your throat one last time before pulling back, staring straight in your eyes. Saying, insisting, “You saved me. I was a piece of wood before you. An heir. A marble statue only fit for a bloody throne.”

He shifts to mimic something close to lovemaking. Soft thrusts to meet your hips, he moves you sideways so he’ll have better access. You can’t speak for a moment. The hot, needy pull, the intensity in his eyes a reflection of yours. In the last few years, you have held him in contempt in anger in annoyance in adoration in tenderness in love. In love with tender-eyes and honeysuckle dreams of a future where all is well. You know him by his weight when he comes back to the side of his bed and by the absence when he leaves in the morning. You know him by the blurred mist he leaves in your mirror and the collection of love letters he sends to you whenever he’s away. 

There’s a fear of death that creeps in when you love someone. But there’s the exhilarating, nauseating life as well. Burning you, engulfing you. “You saved me, too. I was so lonely before you. You saved me from a life of exceptional loneliness.”

There is a visceral persistence to your knowledge of him. Staring at his familiar mismatched eyes, there’s an undeniable stretch of memory that makes you trust that it’ll always be there. That the same pull you felt, deep in your belly, even after he’d been too careful while making love to you. Every time, after those desperate, needy pushes inside you, he was always careful not to come inside you —instead spilling his seeds over your thighs, or your stomach—and then clutching you close so you’d not even register the emptiness. Instead of praying for a child that propriety, his blood, the realm had demanded of you to, you laid together, chest pressed against each other, easing your breaths and feeling your heartbeats come to the same rhythm as his spend dried against both your skin.

He traces his hand along your face now. “We’ll be fine. We’ll be so fine. All our life.”

The sky outside your window shimmers. You melt.

“I know.”

more of my akotsk stories

akotsk masterlist

[zenbabyy]

promise me?

pairing // toxic!fratkuna x fem!reader

warnings // 18+ only, smut, unprotected sex, slight cum play ig, soft sukuna, depression, angst w/ comfort, he's likes your bush, mdni!!

word count: 7.8k

author's note: thank you all for waiting for part three, i hope you like it :)

part 1 | part 2

Warm sunlight spills across your skin as you blink lazily against the brightness.

The first thing you feel is the familiar weight of an arm draped over your waist.

You smile to yourself before you've even opened your eyes completely, instinctively scooting backward until your back presses against his chest. He lets out a quiet hum of approval, burying his face into the crook of your neck as his arm tightens around you.

You can hear the birds outside the bedroom window, the distant hum of cars somewhere below, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

For a while, neither of you moves.

There was never any rush on mornings like these.

Eventually, his fingers lazily trace small circles against your stomach before sliding lower to intertwine with yours. You turn your head just enough for him to press a sleepy kiss against your temple.

Another follows your cheek.

Then your jaw.

Until you're laughing quietly, trying to push him away while he ignores every half-hearted attempt.

The room feels warm.

Safe.

Like nothing bad could ever happen.

...

Your eyes flutter open.

The room is silent.

Your hand instinctively reaches across the other side of the bed, searching for a warmth that had disappeared long before you woke.

You sigh quietly and roll onto your back, staring blankly at the ceiling.

It had been almost six months since Sukuna broke things off.

Six months since you lost a piece of yourself.

You glance over at the clock on your nightstand.

5:07 a.m.

Too early for anyone to be awake, but sleep had become a rare luxury these days.

Today would have been your third anniversary.

You couldn't help but think back to all the conversations you'd had during your first year together—the ones where the future seemed so certain. You'd spent hours lying tangled together in bed, talking about everything you were going to do once college was over. Traveling the world, meeting each other's families. 

Getting an apartment together.

Getting married.

If only your past self could see you now. 

Maybe she’d do things differently…

You sluggishly push yourself up, your bare feet sinking into the carpet before you make your way out of your room.

The dorm is quiet.

You make your way to the bathroom, peeling your clothes off with movements that feel heavier than they should before stepping beneath the spray of warm water. 

It takes a while for you to do anything other than stand there, your forehead resting against the cool tile as the water runs over your skin, washing away two days' worth of exhaustion without ever quite touching the ache settled somewhere much deeper.

When you finally step back into your room, you pull on an old pair of sweats and a loose tshirt— his tshirt... before letting the damp towel fall onto the floor. Your hair drips onto your shoulders as you pass the mirror, catching your reflection only long enough to notice how unfamiliar you look. 

At some point you'd stopped caring. 

The makeup brushes scattered across your vanity sat untouched beneath a thin layer of dust; your perfumes remained lined up exactly where you'd left them months ago, and the little jewelry dish that used to empty every morning now stayed full, each necklace and ring waiting patiently for a version of you that never came back.

There was a time when getting ready had been your favorite part of the day.

You let yourself fall backward onto the bed, pulling the comforter over your body until only the faint glow from your iPad remained visible. You stayed like that for the entire morning, intent on hiding yourself away from the world until the day finally passed. 

Criminal Minds had been playing for hours, episodes rolling into one another without you remembering a single plotline, the familiar voices filling your room just enough to keep the silence from becoming unbearable.

Eventually, you reach over and pause it.

The room falls quiet again.

Your phone is already in your hand before you really think about it, your thumb hovering over your photo album for longer than reasonable. 

You know exactly what waits behind that little icon. 

You know how this ends every single time. 

Still, the album opens beneath your fingertips with the ease of muscle memory, and before long you're scrolling through the photos you'd promised yourself weeks ago you would delete, searching them with the quiet desperation of someone afraid memory might one day fail them.

You'd become terrified of forgetting him.

The curl of his upper lip when he was scolding you. The way he'd lean against doorframes with his arms crossed whenever he was waiting for you to finish getting ready. The tired look in his eyes after he'd stayed up too late. 

You found yourself studying each picture a little longer than the last, as though if you looked hard enough, you could somehow memorize him all over again before life stole something else you weren't ready to lose.

You scroll slowly, your thumb dragging lazily across the screen as a familiar weight settles into your bones. 

Missing him felt cruel somehow, like it was another thing you hadn't earned. Every time your heart reached for him, your guilt was already there to meet it, quietly reminding it that none of this would've happened if you'd just been…different.

You stop on a picture you'd taken while he was asleep.

You remembered laughing to yourself after you took it, careful not to wake him as you tucked yourself a little closer into his side before turning the camera around. You'd been wearing the biggest, most obnoxious grin, so ridiculously proud of yourself for finally catching him off guard after months of him threatening to throw your phone across the room every time you pointed it at him. 

He'd complained about pictures constantly, muttering under his breath that they were stupid, that nobody needed fifty photos of the same damn thing, but he never actually stopped you. 

Looking back now, you couldn't remember a single time he genuinely told you no.

A faint smile finds its way onto your lips as you swipe to the next picture.

He was halfway through a bowl of udon, cheeks full as he glared at you from across the table while you laughed so hard the photo came out slightly blurry. You could still remember him pointing his chopsticks at you afterward, the way his voice sounded when it was muffled by the food in his mouth. Five minutes later, he was begging to finish yours too.

The smile barely had time to settle before it slipped away.

Your thumb stopped over the next photograph, your stomach sinking as you stared at it a little longer.

It was one of the few pictures the two of you had actually posed for together.

You'd only been exclusive for a couple of months then. 

The blunt had been passed back and forth until it was nothing more than ash, the conversation drifting from stupid jokes to long stretches of comfortable silence while the wind tugged gently at your clothes. 

You remembered thinking he'd gone unusually quiet before he finally looked over at you, like he suddenly wasn't quite sure what to do with himself. 

Then he asked you to be his girlfriend.

You were surprised, honestly. You'd never imagined someone like Sukuna could get nervous, but there he was, a faint flush dusting his cheeks as he awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck, his usual bite nowhere to be found.

The second you said yes, the tension seemed to melt right out of him. His shoulders loosened with relief before he stepped forward and kissed you.

Some woman passing by must've noticed because she'd smiled at the two of you and insisted on taking a picture.

You'd agreed immediately, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist as you pressed your chest into his side, the last of the evening sun casting everything in a warm golden glow. You were looking straight at the camera, smiling so brightly your cheeks almost hurt.

He didn’t look. Instead, his eyes were on you.

Your thumb lingered over the picture, tracing the outline of his face. 

You let out a slow breath, your throat tightening.

God, you missed him so fucking much. 

You locked your phone and tossed it onto the bed before dragging both hands over your face, willing yourself to breathe through the discomfort before another wave of tears could find you. 

You'd promised yourself you weren't going to cry over him anymore, but every time you looked at his pictures, your resolve crumbled so quickly you hardly noticed until your vision blurred all over again.

You stayed there for a long while, curled beneath the blankets as the room settled into an uneasy silence around you. The faint hum of the air conditioner drifted through the dorm while sunlight crept slowly across the floor, inching closer to your bed with every passing minute until it warmed your sock-covered feet. 

You watched it absentmindedly, letting the hours slip by without paying them much attention, hoping that if you stayed still long enough your heart might eventually grow tired of hurting.

With a quiet sigh, you forced yourself upright and pulled on your shoes before shrugging into your hoodie, tugging the sleeves over your hands as you stepped out into the hallway. 

You hadn't planned on going anywhere today, but your feet carried you onward anyway, moving with a certainty your mind couldn't seem to match.

The bus ride passed in much the same haze. 

Buildings gave way to open stretches of road as the familiar scenery rolled past the window, your gaze fixed somewhere beyond the glass while your thoughts wandered where you kept telling yourself not to go.

Nearly thirty minutes later, you stepped off onto the gravel shoulder and made your way down the narrow dirt path. 

The wind greeted you first, carrying the sharp scent of saltwater through the air as it rustled the tall grass growing along the edge of the cliffs. 

Everything looked exactly as you remembered it.

It wasn't until you stopped walking that you fully realized where you'd come.

The place where your entire relationship had begun.

You settled against the weathered wooden fence, your gaze drifting across the ocean as the evening sun dipped lower towards the horizon. The breeze carried gently over your face, and for a moment, everything felt exactly as it had before.

It was comforting…yet unbearable.

You drew in a slow breath, but it did nothing to ease the sting gathering behind your eyes.

You had so many regrets.

There were days when they settled calmly in the back of your mind, and you were able to ignore them enough to function. 

Then there were days like today, where they seemed to press against your ribs with every breath, making it impossible to think about anything else.

You wished you could go back to the point where everything started to change. To the version of yourself that hadn't yet let every fear, every insecurity, every old wound convince you that the person standing in front of you was eventually going to disappoint you just like the ones before him.

Somewhere along the way you'd stopped letting him love you, choosing instead to test it over and over until there was nothing left to prove.

You knew, logically, that the end of your relationship hadn't rested entirely on your shoulders. But standing there, looking out over the place where it had all started, logic didn't seem to matter very much.

Your mind wandered back to every argument you'd started, every time you'd pushed him away only to see if he’d come back, every cruel word spoken out of spite and jealousy. 

You thought about how many times he'd looked at you with tired eyes and chosen to stay anyway, working tirelessly to chip away at the walls you'd built around yourself, never once asking you to tear them down all at once. He wanted to give you the world. Kept trying to prove himself to you.

And god... did he really try.

You wrapped your arms around yourself as a few silent tears slipped down your cheeks, the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs below filling the space as you mourned the loss of your love.

By the time your tears finally began to slow, the sleeves of your hoodie were damp where you'd wiped at your face over and over again. You let out an unsteady breath before turning toward the old wooden staircase, carefully making your way down the weathered steps as they groaned softly beneath your weight. 

Your eyes stayed fixed on your footing, avoiding the splintered boards and patches of rot that had grown worse over the years.

The last step creaked beneath your shoe.

You lifted your head.

Dark eyes met yours.

The world seemed to stop all at once as the two of you stared across the small platform, surprise settling over both of your faces.

Sukuna sat rigid on the old bench, shoulders tense, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets like he was bracing himself.

A sharp rush of heat flooded your body, stealing the air from your lungs. Your pulse thundered in your ears, thoughts slipping away as your body struggled to catch up with what your eyes were seeing.

Shit.

You turned on instinct, desperate to leave before you broke down in front of him. 

Before you could make it more than a step up the old wooden staircase, his voice called out from behind you, stopping you in your tracks.

"Wait."

Your breathing turned uneven as you squeezed your eyes shut, every part of you wanting to hide yourself away. 

Looking at him felt impossible, but somehow walking away felt even worse.

So, slowly, you turned.

The moment your eyes met his, a rush of adrenaline shot through you. 

He looked…sad… and for a second neither of you seemed capable of saying anything.

"I, uh..." he started, his face flushing as his eyes lingered on yours. "I was gonna leave... you stay."

You could only stare at him. 

Your fingers twitched at your sides before curling into your palms, reminding yourself that you didn't have the right to reach for him anymore.

"It's okay..." you whispered, your tongue feeling bulky in your mouth.

Silence settled between you once more before his gaze drifted back toward the ocean, leaving nothing but the sound of the waves filling the space between you.

"You, uh..." his throat bobbed as he swallowed, "you wanna sit with me for a bit?"

The hesitation in his voice pulled you back three years, to the same nervous man who could barely look you in the eye when he'd asked you to be his.

"Sure..." you answered quietly.

You made your way over to the bench and sat beside him, leaving a polite space between you. 

It felt strange. 

This day last year you were tucked beneath his arm without a second thought, and now neither of you seemed to know how to exist in the same space. 

The wind drifted through the cliffs, carrying the sounds of the seagulls gliding above you two. You both sat quietly, watching the water catch the last of the evening light.

"So..." he said after a while, his voice deeper than you remembered, "how've... uh... how've things been?"

You didn't answer right away. 

Your eyes stayed on the ocean as you searched for something that wouldn't sound absolutely pathetic.

"It's been okay."

He could hear the lie as soon as it left your mouth.

What else were you supposed to tell him? That you'd spent months feeling like half of yourself had disappeared the night he left you?

A quiet breath left your nose, almost sounding like a laugh if someone wasn't listening closely.

He didn't push.

The two of you simply watched the sun sink lower, the sky slowly melting into soft shades of gold, crimson, and violet as thin clouds stretched and blurred across the horizon, drifting slowly overhead.

"I wanted to apologize..." he said quietly. "...for how I treated you the last time—"

"You don't have to apologize," you interrupted, your voice barely above a whisper, "I deserved it."

His jaw tightened.

He wet his lips, keeping his eyes fixed on the horizon as the breeze stirred the loose strands of his hair. 

He knew better than to look at you for too long. He knew every time he did, whatever resolve he had slipped through his fingers like sand.

"You didn't deserve that..." he said after a moment, the words leaving him with a shake of his head.

You don’t respond to that.

"I..." your voice caught almost immediately, forcing you to swallow around the tightness, "I'm sorry Sukuna."

His head snapped toward you.

In the whole two and a half years with you, he couldn't remember a single time you'd actually apologized.

You kept your eyes lowered, your fingers twisting together in your lap as you gathered the courage to keep going.

"I..." you took a shaky breath, "I was a terrible girlfriend."

His brows drew together as he looked at you properly for the first time since you sat down.

You looked different.

No pretty earrings…no dainty necklace... 

Your face was bare, your eyes tired. 

His gaze drifted lower before settling on your hands, where your fingers nervously worried at the promise ring he'd given you on your first anniversary, now resting on your middle finger.

His chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt.

His hands curled into fists inside the pocket of his hoodie, the only thing stopping him from reaching across the bench and pulling you back into his arms.

He knew this was a bad idea.

The second he'd seen you making your way down the old wooden staircase, he'd almost convinced himself he was imagining things. 

For a brief, impossible moment, it had felt like the breakup never happened, like you were simply coming to meet him the way you always used to.

"I was so mean to you... and I was so toxic," you continued, your voice beginning to tremble, "I don't know why I'm like this…"

The tears came before you could stop them.

"I've been so scared of getting hurt... of being vulnerable… that I just kept pushing you away." your words caught on uneven breaths as you struggled to keep yourself together, "...I wish I would've been different." 

You shook your head, wiping hastily at your face with the sleeve of your hoodie. 

"I wanted to be different for you so bad, Sukuna."

Only then did you finally look at him.

The regret in your eyes hit him harder than any argument the two of you had ever had, and for once, he realized you looked just as exhausted as he felt.

"I didn't deserve you," you whispered, your voice thick with emotion, "I'm just... so fucking sorry…"

His heart broke all over again.

"I know." he answered.

The words sounded harsher than he'd meant them to, and he let out a slow breath, dragging a hand roughly through his hair before dropping it back into his lap. 

His jaw stayed clenched, his foot tapping restlessly against the dirt as he searched for the right thing to say.

"It wasn't all your fault." he admitted after a long moment, his eyes falling back to the scenary, where the last of the sunlight danced across the water, "I was an asshole... and I was always too aggressive."

You shook your head, ready to argue, but he didn't give you the chance.

"I was." he looked at you then, his expression leaving no room for debate.

Your gaze fell back on the water, his words settling somewhere deep inside you.

It wasn't all your fault.

The thought felt foreign.

"Maybe..." he let out a quiet breath, "...maybe we were cursed from the start."

You frowned, turning the words over in your mind as the breeze picked up.

"I just want you to know that, despite every mistake I made..." your voice softened as you looked back at him, "...I've never loved anyone as much as I love you." 

He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, blinking quickly before a quiet sniffle escaped him.

"Yeah..." he cleared his throat, his voice rough.

The word settled sharply in your heart. 

A small part of you had waited— hoped— for him to say it back, but you swallowed the disappointment before it found its way onto your face.

"Well..." you let out a shaky breath as you pushed yourself to your feet, "...I should probably get going before it gets too dark."

You brushed the dirt from the back of your sweats before tucking your hands into the pocket of your hoodie, letting your eyes linger on him for just a moment longer.

"I’m glad I got to see you, Sukuna."

With that, you turned and slowly made your way back toward the staircase, each step creaking softly beneath your feet.

Sukuna watched you walk away, his eyes lingering on your retreating figure long after you'd stopped looking back. 

Every instinct in him screamed to go after you, to say something— anything —that might keep you from running away, but the quieter part of him kept reminding him why he'd let you go in the first place.

Memories surfaced one after another.

You cussing him out and demanding to go through his phone. You getting wasted and flirting with every guy who gave you a second glance.

The sound of his car door slamming after he'd driven you home from yet another argument...

…The meals you'd always have waiting for him after a long day at work...

The absentminded way you'd trace your fingers over his tattoos whenever he laid against your chest.

How you'd looked at him, as though every rough edge he carried was simply another part of him worth loving.

Nobody had ever done that before...

A sharp curse tore from him as he shoved himself off the bench, the motion abrupt, restless… like staying still for even a second longer would suffocate him. 

He didn’t bother with the stairs properly—taking them two at a time, nearly missing his footing in his haste. By the time he reached the top, you were already halfway down the road, shoulders hunched.

His feet moved faster than his thoughts could catch up, carrying him forward before he had the chance to stop himself.

“Hey!” he shouted, voice rough, louder than he meant it to be, cutting through the calmness and drawing a few startled glances from nearby bystanders as he closed the distance between you in long, urgent strides.

You turned at the sound of his voice, confusion barely having time to cross your face before he reached you and pulled you into his arms, crushing your body against his.

You froze the moment his arms closed around you, a surprised huff leaving your lungs as you stood there for a second, too stunned to move.

Then you melted into him.

Your fingers bunched the fabric of his hoodie as you wrapped your arms tightly around his waist, burying your face against his warmth as months of grief came spilling out all at once. 

He held you closer, his chin resting lightly against the top of your head as he closed his eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of your conditioner he'd spent months trying to forget.

"I'm sorry..." he whispered, his voice rough against your hair.

You could only shake your head.

The words were there somewhere, caught behind the lump in your throat, but every time you tried to speak, another sob took their place.

When he finally leaned back, his hands lingered at your waist before slowly finding your face, his palms warm against your tear-stained cheeks. His eyes wandered over your features quietly, as though trying to memorize you all over again, before he leaned forward and kissed you with a gentleness you'd never felt from him before.

You kissed him back without thinking.

When your lips finally parted, he rested his forehead against yours for the briefest moment before taking a small step back. 

Your fingers instinctively caught the front of his hoodie, and the look that crossed your face made his heart hurt.

You looked terrified he'd disappear the second you let go.

“Will you come home with me?” he asks quickly, his heart pounding loudly in his ears.

You blinked before giving a small nod, your thoughts racing with implications of his request.

You didn't know if he wanted you back or if this was simply one last night before the two of you finally let each other go, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. 

If he was the one asking, you'd go anywhere.

The walk back to his car passed in silence, neither of you quite knowing what to say. 

He opened the passenger door before reaching across to buckle your seatbelt, the movement so automatic neither of you acknowledged it, and for a fleeting moment it felt as though the last six months had been nothing more than a bad dream.

The drive home was long and achingly familiar.

When he finally pulled into the driveway, your eyes instinctively drifted toward the end of it, the memory of cold concrete against your scraped knees returning so vividly you could almost feel the sting. The porch looked exactly as it always had, clean and ordinary, giving no sign that the worst night of your life had unfolded there.

He unlocked the front door and stepped aside to let you in first.

You slipped your shoes off by the entrance before wandering a few steps into the living room, taking in the familiar space that had once been a second home to you.

Behind you, the front door clicked shut. 

A second later, you felt his hands settle carefully on your hips before he pulled you back against him, resting his forehead against the side of your neck.

"I missed you…" he murmured against you, the confession so quiet you almost wondered if he'd meant to say it out loud.

You let yourself sink into him.

He pulls you tighter against him, his hardness already pressing into your lower back as if he couldn’t control himself. He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, his hands sliding up under your hoodie to caress your soft stomach.

You sigh as you feel his calloused palms run up your abdomen until they settle under the swell of your breasts. 

Your heart was pounding so hard now you were certain he could feel it through your ribcage.

And yeah… 

He knew what he was doing to you.

He’d learned the language of your body years ago— how your breath hitched when he ghosted his palms over your skin, the way you’d grow hot when he used his fingers.

His hands continued their exploration until he was cupping your breasts, his thumbs rubbing circles over your hard nipples. He presses a lingering kiss to your pulse point, sucking a deep dark mark into it before smoothing his tongue over the sore spot.

Without a word, he pulls away from you and leads you by the wrist to the couch, his grip firm but gentle. He sits down first, pulling you onto his lap so that you’re straddling him. 

His large hands immediately go to your hips again, squeezing possessively.

You place yours over his shoulders, feeling the thick muscles under your palms. His eyes lock onto yours with a knowing gaze.

You both stay just like that, months of separation settling between you two like an invisible barrier. He can see the nervousness flickering in your expression, so he doesn’t rush you. 

He simply keeps his hands on you, grounding you to him. You swallow as you feel his length press against your inner thigh. It makes your face flush embarrassingly deep, as if it were your first time being in this position with him all over again.

He watches you, his chest swelling painfully with affection and love. 

He recognizes your nerves—that little stutter that always surfaces when you’re overwhelmed.

His dick is thick and hard against you as he shifts, allowing him to press more firmly into your core as he rubs his hands over the sides of your thighs.

“You look so pretty…” he mutters as he openly takes you in.

Neither of you says a word, but you don't have to. The way he holds you says everything neither of you are quite brave enough to voice.

The love. The hurt.

The quiet possessiveness…

He can see how much you need him— how much you need each other. The feeling fuels his movements as he reaches his hands behind you to grip your ass, pulling you forward until you’re flush against him, both of you twitching at the contact.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, your clit throbbing as you imagine him sliding through your wetness, using your slick to lubricate himself just like how he did before.

His hold tightens with enough strength to bruise as he works your cunt over him in a slow, agonising rhythm—building the tension before he fucks you dumb.

You gasp, and his mouth quirks up into that knowing smirk. He knows exactly what you need— what you need him to tell you to do.

“Take your clothes off.” he pulls his hands away from you.

The command is absolute, his voice dropping an octave. 

He sits back against the back of the couch and lets his arms spread along the back, watching you with a dark, heavy gaze that makes you clench around nothing. 

There’s no room for negotiation—he expects obedience, and the subtle flex of his muscles tells you he enjoys seeing you vulnerable in front of him.

You stand on shaky legs and pull your clothes off, your hands moving clumsily as you stand in front of him in your bra and panties. He watches as your soft curves come into view. His eyes drag hungrily over the shape of your body before he hums.

“Everything.” 

You nervously unhook your bra, then push your panties down, cursing yourself for not shaving.  He swallows hard, his gaze lingering between your thighs before he forces it back up to your face.

“Come ‘ere.”

You crawl back into his lap, your center brushing over the front of his sweats as you settle back in.

He inhales deeply, his jaw clenching as he feels the warmth of your bare pussy right over him. He brings his hands back to your ass, pulling your cheeks open as he moves you over him again. 

Your thighs twitch as you feel the rough material rub over your clit, causing you to moan quietly.

“Such a sensitive little thing…” he licks his lips.

Your hands tremble on his shoulders as you look down at him—this powerful, intimidating man who somehow belongs to you.

Belonged… to you…

You push the reminder down and focus on the feeling of him against you. 

He studies your face, seeing every flicker of emotion…every spark of desire. 

“You know what I want, baby.” 

You let out a breathy moan as you begin grinding onto his lap. He groans low in his throat, his head falling back slightly as you find that rhythm he taught you. His hands continue to guide you, letting you use him to chase your own pleasure.

“There you go…” he breathes out, “let that pretty pussy soak my cock.”

You rub your clit back and forth on him, the wet sounds sending a shiver down his spine. He can feel it soaking through to him, the smell of your arousal flooding his senses. He moves his hands to hook his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats, tugging it down just enough to free the head of his cock.

“Baby…” you whine, watching as his length springs free. 

He slowly drags the thick, swollen head through your slick, coating himself completely. Every time he flicks over your clit, you both moan.

The visual is obscene—your pussy spreading as he bullies his way through your puffy lips, letting your wetness drip down his entire length. His hips flex slightly as he finally presses against your entrance, stopping just before he slips in. 

You whine again, this time in frustration as he teases your opening. 

“Shh, baby…you know I love making you wait…” he coos at you lowly.

You tilt your head to the side, your eyebrows furrowing as you look at how small your pussy looks compared to his girth.

“Hold on to me.” he says, and you immediately wrap your arms around him tightly.

He holds you against him as he stands, his arms lifting you with effortless strength, before he settles you on your back against the couch. 

You watch him pull his clothes off, his cock bobbing up and down as his heavy balls hang down between his thighs. He wraps a hand around himself as he kneels between your legs, using the other to hook underneath your knee and push you open.

“Lemme see that pretty pussy baby…” he grunts out as he fists his tip. 

The sight is overwhelming— the veins bulging along his shaft, the head swollen and leaking onto your thigh…

He looked like a greek god towering over you.

You moan and pull your legs up and open, reaching one hand between them to run down his torso.

“Sukuna…fuck me.” you wet your lips as you look up at him.

His abs flex under your touch, and he has to squeeze himself at the base to stop himself form cumming right then and there. 

He grips one of your ankles, bringing it to rest against his shoulder before pushing your other thigh to the side.

You were spread open just the way he knew you liked.

“Gonna fuck you just like this…” he lifts your hips to fold one of his throw pillows under you to line your hips up with his.

“Kuna…” you’re panting now, your pussy dripping down your crack, perfectly positioned for him to hit all the sensitive spots inside of you.

You feel absolutely dirty. 

You can hardly wrap your head around the way your day had changed so drastically since this morning, but you don’t care. 

All you know is that you need him inside you.

He leans down, crushing your leg against your body as he captures your lips in a slow, messy kiss, swallowing your needy whines before his heavy cock starts dragging through your folds.

He straightens back up and smirks as he deliberately catches on your slit again, causing you to whine out. He can feel your opening trying to suck him in, clenching and pulsing against the underside of his dick, and he finally decides to show you some mercy.

Your breathing grows heavier as he reaches down, his thumb pushing his crown into you before he returns it to your thigh.

He applies slow, unbearable pressure, watching as his thickness splits you open. Your walls flutter and cling around the intrusion, almost as if it were trying to pull him in but push him out at the same time.

“Relax…let me in...” he groans. 

“Ohhh fuucckk...” you moan loudly as your head falls back against the cushions.

He groans as he bottoms out, then brings his thumb to your clit, pulling the hood back to let your hard, shiny pearl pop out from under your bush.

He lets a glob of spit fall directly over it before he starts rubbing distracting circles to help you adjust. 

His jaw was tight with restraint.

“There you go…look at that…” he grins down at you as he applies more pressure to your aching nub.

You whimper.

“Fuck… you’ve been saving this little pussy for me, haven’t you?” he lets out a breathy chuckle as you tighten around him, your body hypersensitive after months of abstinence.

You nod, and his thumb speeds up, desperately trying to draw out those sweet sounds from your mouth.

“Feels good, huh baby?” 

You cry out as he pinches your clit between his fingers, rolling and swiping over it until your thighs are shaking uncontrollably.

“I-Ima cum, Sukuna!” you gasp out as you feel the familiar burn spreading through you like a wildfire.

“Mmm…let go on my cock.” 

He feels your walls clamp down violently around him, your pussy twitching as you cum. 

A shocked cry leaves your lips at the intensity of it. He works you through it, making you take every wave while he stays buried deep.

“So tight…” he groans as he grabs your hips, pulling out before you’ve even begun to recover.

The sound is obscene— a loud, wet squelch that echoes through the room as he rocks his hips forward just once, slamming deep into your insides. He curses under his breath as you tighten around him further, reacting violently to the sudden movement.

He freezes there, buried to the hilt, watching your face scrunch up in a mix of shock and pleasure. 

He knows he won’t last long. Not with the way you're milking him, and the faces you’re making.

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum, pretty…” he breathes out. 

He starts moving with devastating, practiced rhythm— slow, heavy strokes that drag every thick inch over your overly sensitive walls. The wet noises grow louder with each return into your heat. 

Your whole body burns as you look up at him. His eyes are fixed on where you join, his pupils dilating as he watches you take him, your lips stretching around him each time he pushes forward.

“More baby…” you say quietly, biting your lip as you rub your hands up your body, stopping to pull at your stiff peaks. 

You were putting on a show for him.

He growls and begins fucking into you harder, using your hips as leverage to pull you back onto his cock with each slap of his hips.

“Shiiit…” you moan out.

He buries himself entirely inside you with each thrust, your tight hole sucking him in greedily. Your body jerks up and down the couch as your hands fly down to fist the cushion.

“Ah!” you squeeze your eyes shut as he angles his cock up, slamming into your g-spot roughly.

He moans loudly. 

He loved seeing how he vanished into your pussy, only to emerge coated in your cream, and he’d never admit this, but he loved it when you didn’t shave. 

“Watch me as I fuck you.” he grips your jaw roughly, forcing two fingers into your mouth.

Your eyes fly open as you swirl your tongue around them wetly. 

His expression is devastatingly handsome— brows furrowed, jaw slack as deep masculine moans poured out of him. 

He’s fucking both of you stupid.

He presses his fingers deeper, making you gag and moan before he pulls them out to slap your tit.

“F-Fuck yes baby, you’re gonna m-make me cum all over your cunt.” he pants, gripping your soft flesh into his hand.

You grunt as he grinds into you meanly, his pubic hair rubbing into yours, creating a delicious friction over your swollen clit.

His eyebrows knit together as he watches your eyes roll back, your mouth open in a perfect ‘o’. Each grind pushes his blunt head against your cervix, sending devastating jolts straight through you.

“Kunaaa!” you let out a high-pitched moan as your body tenses.

“I-I know, baby…” he whines as his balls tighten up, “cum with me…please…”

“Pleeaaasee,” you cry out, tears pricking your eyes, “m’close, please!”

The sounds of your broken, desperate begging send him over the edge. His mouth hangs wider, a raw, guttural moan tearing from his throat as his hips pull back to slam forward one last time— burying himself as deep as he can. 

He hunches forward to bury his face in your neck as he releases thick ropes of cum against your womb.

Your body locks up as your own orgasm washes over you, a pathetic whine escaping you as you wrap your arms tightly around his head.

His cock pulses inside you, his warm seed overflowing and leaking onto the pillow under you. You’re sealed around him like a vice, sucking every last drop out of his heavy sac as they press tightly against your ass.

He holds you tighter, kissing along your neck lazily as you both ride out your waves of pleasure together.

He sucks another dark mark right along your jaw before he pulls back and smirks. 

You can only look up at him dazed as his cock softens inside you, your shared wetness coating both of your thighs. You stay like that for a while before he sighs and leans back onto his knees, finally pulling himself out.

He watches with dark, satisfied eyes as your gaping pussy oozes his release— globs of white leaking out and down over your puckered hole. He uses his fingers to spread you open, watching how your used hole puckers open and closed.

He shook his head, a quiet laugh slipping past his lips as he pushed himself off the couch. Stretching his arms above his head, he scratched absentmindedly at his stomach before disappearing down the hallway, leaving you alone with nothing but the faint sound of running water somewhere deeper in the house.

The silence settled over the room almost immediately.

Your eyes drifted toward the hallway he'd vanished down, then to the front door. The longer he stayed out of sight, the heavier the knot in your chest became, until you were already pushing yourself off the couch. 

Your clothes were scattered across the living room floor where you'd left them earlier, and you gathered them slowly, your fingers clumsier than usual as you pulled them back on. You'd just tugged your hoodie over your head when footsteps echoed down the hallway.

He appeared with a damp washcloth in one hand.

"Sorry, I had to—" the words died on his tongue as his eyes landed on you standing by the door. 

His brows pulled together, confusion quickly replacing the small smile that had been resting on his face. 

"You…going somewhere?"

You froze.

Guilt settled in you heavily as a dozen different explanations rushed through your mind, yet somehow none of them made it past your lips.

“Oh… I was—” you stammered, “I just thought…”

The words faded before they ever became a sentence.

You clasped your hands together in front of yourself, suddenly finding the floor far more interesting than his face. He watched you for a long moment before shaking his head, a quiet laugh escaping him as he looked away.

“God…” he glanced back at you, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth, “you really are dumb sometimes.”

Your head snapped up.

“Excuse me?”

He chuckled again, tossing the damp washcloth onto the kitchen counter before closing the distance between you. His hands found your hips with an easy familiarity, gently pulling you back against him until you had no choice but to meet his eyes. 

Hope flickered quietly in your chest, so small you were afraid to acknowledge it.

“What?” he asked, licking his lips as he searched your face, “you thought I was gonna fuck you and then just let you leave?”

Your mouth opened, then closed again.

“Uh…” you looked down, heat creeping into your cheeks, “I don’t know…”

The smile on his face softened as he watched you fumble for an answer.

“Not happening.”

Your eyes lifted to his again, searching his face for what he meant.

“Huh?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he leaned down and kissed you, slow and deliberate, and when he finally pulled away, your head felt almost weightless. Your eyes fluttered open to find him already looking at you, a familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Fuck no,” he murmured, “I’m not letting you go again.”

For a second you could only stare at him, the words taking a moment to settle before they finally reached you. 

The tightness in your throat gave way all at once, your bottom lip trembling as tears spilled freely down your cheeks. You buried your face against him, clinging desperately as though you were afraid waking up would make all of this disappear.

He let out a slow breath, his arms tightening around you as he rested his chin lightly against the top of your head. 

He gave you a moment to cry before gently pulling you back, one hand cupping your jaw while his thumb brushed away the tears that refused to stop falling.

“Stop crying, crybaby…” he mumbled, the teasing softened by the way he looked at you.

“I-I just…” your voice broke before you could finish, another wave of tears blurring your vision.

He sighed quietly and pulled you back into his arms.

“I know, baby…”

You wrapped yourself around his waist, breathing him in like you’d spent the last six months forgetting what home smelled like.

“I love you, Sukuna.” you whispered, your voice muffled against his chest.

“I love you…” he answered into your hair.

Eventually your tears settled into quiet sniffles, and he led you down the hallway to his bedroom. The familiar room was dimly lit by the bright moon filtering through the curtains as you climbed into bed beside him, every muscle in your body aching with exhaustion. 

You curled against him without thinking, your head resting over his heart while his hand moved slowly up and down your back, the steady rhythm coaxing some of the tension from your body.

“Hey…” he said quietly, his voice low with exhaustion.

“Hm?” you hummed, shifting slightly against him without opening your eyes.

“Promise me something.”

His fingers slipped into your hair, gently massaging your scalp as the room settled comfortably around you.

“What, baby?” you mumbled sleepily.

He was quiet for a moment.

“Promise me we’ll be better this time around.”

Your eyes slowly opened, and you lifted your head just enough to rest your chin against his chest. You caught the uncertainty in his expression, so unfamiliar on someone who had always carried himself with unwavering confidence. 

It made a deep ache swell inside you.

“I promise.” you whispered.

He searched your face for another moment before giving the smallest nod, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead as he guided your head back against him. 

Beneath your cheek, his heartbeat rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, and you listened to it in silence, hoping this time neither of you would give the other a reason to forget its sound.

His arm tightened around your waist.

Tomorrow would ask more of the two of you than love alone had ever been able to give. 

But maybe…just maybe…

You’d get it right this time…

whewww chiiiile

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[dirtylittlediary]

is it really you ? - frank castle

pairing : frank castle x f!reader

summary : for you, it's been five years. for him, only a few seconds.

warnings : ANGST. ANGST. ANGST. hurt/comfort, with about 30 % comfort and only like at the very end (oops), this is an alt AU where both frank and reader were part of the avengers (bare with me i swear it makes sense), mentions of depression, mentions of unaliving one's self, oh and did i mention angst

word count : 6.1 k

a/n : not proofread ! blame them. they made me do this. i'm sorry.

The air is so unbelievably thin.

Your chest feels like it's constricting every time you move, your limbs aching and groaning with every sudden movement.

Everything hurts.

The battlefield stretches for miles, painted in smoke and fire and broken metal. The sky itself seems wounded, split apart by ships burning as they fall back toward the earth.

Around you—

Screams.

Orders.

The crackle of energy weapons.

Someone is crying. Someone else is begging.

You can't tell who anymore.

Your sword hangs limp at your side, suddenly far too heavy to lift.

Across the ruined plain, you see Steve drop to one knee. Thor is staring at his empty hands. Natasha's face has gone completely white.

"…What…" The word barely leaves your lips. Thanos stands in the distance. Motionless. The Infinity Gauntlet hangs scorched and smoking from his arm. The stones are dim. His fingers are still spread from the snap.

"No…" The wind changes. You don't understand it at first. A strange current sweeps across the battlefield, carrying gray ash into the air. Then someone screams. You turn. Bucky Barnes looks down at his own hand. It flakes away beneath his fingertips. Like burnt paper. Steve lunges toward him.

"Bucky—" But he can't hold onto smoke. Within seconds… He's gone. Nothing remains but drifting ash.

"No…" Another scream. Sam. Gone.

Someone shouts Wanda's name.

Someone else yells for T'Challa.

The battlefield erupts into chaos.

"No, no, no…" You stumble forward. This isn't happening. This can't—

Movement catches your eye.

Peter. He's running toward you. Your heart leaps.

"Peter!" His mask is already off.His eyes are huge. Terrified. He runs and runs and runs- trying to reach you - until he can't anymore.

Until his legs fade to dust beneath him and he falls, face first onto the ground.

"No !" You screech, your heart jumping into your throat. you reach him just as his face starts to come apart like ash.

"No, no, no, Peter, please." You choke on a sob, looking up. "Tony ! Tony, help !" Your own tears start immediately.

"I don't wanna go." He starts crying. "I don't know what's happening." You pull him tighter.

"I've got you." His body trembles against yours. He looks at his hands. Ash drifts from his fingertips.

You grip him harder.

His fingers clutch desperately at your shoulders.

"I don't wanna go."

"I know."

"I don't wanna go."

"I know."

"I'm sorry." His body begins to come apart in your arms. Not all at once. Slowly. Cruelly. His shoulder dissolves first. Then his arm. You desperately try to hold together someone turning into dust. It doesn't work.

"No!" He looks at you one last time. Eyes wet. Terrified.

"…I'm scared."

Then— He is gone. Your arms close around nothing. Ash slips through your fingers. Silence. You stare at your empty hands.

"No…" Your voice cracks. "No." The tears come all at once. Violent. Uncontrollable. You sink onto your knees in the dirt, clutching the handful of gray ash that slips through your trembling fingers.

"No…" It blows away on the wind. "Peter…" Your entire body folds forward. You sob so hard you can't breathe. Around you, more people disappear. More screams. More ash. The battlefield is ending. The world is ending.

And there is nothing— Nothing— You can do.

A voice comes from behind you.

Soft.

Almost lost beneath the chaos.

"…Baby?" You know that voice. Your heart stops.

Slowly— Too slowly— You turn.

Your husband stands twenty feet away.

His rifle hangs forgotten at his side. He's staring at his own hand. Confused.

"…Frank?" He looks up. Your stomach drops.

Gray ash drifts from the tips of his fingers.

"No." He frowns.

"…Huh." Another piece of him crumbles away. He watches it almost curiously. "…Guess…" His voice catches. "…Guess that ain't good."

"No." You scramble toward him, tripping over broken concrete. "No, no, no, no—" He reaches for you. His hand is already disappearing.

"…Hey."

"No!"

"It's alright."

"It is not alright!" You throw yourself into him. Your arms wrap around his waist. He hugs you back. As tightly as he can. But already… You can feel him becoming lighter. Less solid.

"No." His chin rests on top of your head.

"I'm here."

"You are not allowed to leave me." A sad little smile touches his lips.

"Wasn't plannin' on it." His shoulder begins to dissolve beneath your cheek. You clutch harder. As though you can hold him together by sheer force.

"You promised."

"I know."

"You promised you'd always come home."

"I know." Your tears soak into his shirt.

"I can't do this without you." His remaining hand cups your cheek.

Warm. Familiar. The touch you've known a thousand times.

His eyes glisten.

"I wish…" He swallows. "…God… I wish I had more time."

"Frank, stop it."

"I wanted…" Another piece of him drifts away. "…one more mornin'."

"Stop."

"One more coffee."

"No."

"One more kiss." You kiss him before he can finish. Desperate. Shaking. He kisses you back with everything he has left. When you pull away, half his face is already becoming ash.

"I love you."

"No, no- Frankie."

"I love you."

"Frank—"

"You hear me?"

"Stop!"

"I love you." His voice is fading. "So damn much." His arms weaken around you. You try to hold him up. Instead… He slips through your embrace. Like smoke. Like dust. His fingertips brush yours one last time.

Then— Nothing.

The wind catches him. Carries him away. You collapse forward into empty air. Your hands slam into the dirt where he'd been standing only seconds before.

"No…" The battlefield doesn't stop. The explosions continue. People keep shouting. But for you… Everything has gone silent. You curl around the place where he'd vanished, clutching a handful of ash to your chest as it slips, grain by grain, through your fingers. And for the first time since this war began… You scream.

You don't remember making it back to earth. Back to New York.

Back to the apartment that smells like him, the bed that's still ruffled from when he slept in it last.

You vaguely remember Tony being there.

He's talking to Matt.

At least you think he is.

Their voices reach you like they're underwater.

"…can't leave her alone."

"…she hasn't slept."

"…she hasn't eaten."

"…Tony."

"…I know."

You don't look at either of them. You just stand in the middle of your apartment. Frank's boots are still by the door. One of them tipped over. You stare at it for almost five minutes.

Finally— You kneel. You set it upright.

Then you burst into tears. The funeral never comes. There are no bodies to bury. No caskets. No gravestones. Just photographs. Just names. Just empty chairs. Someone gives you a folded flag anyway. You don't remember who. It sits untouched on the kitchen table for almost a year. The first night, you sleep on Frank's side of the bed.

The second night too. By the third… You stop sleeping altogether. You lie awake listening for the sound of his keys in the lock. For boots in the hallway. For the familiar grunt he'd always make as he shrugged out of his jacket.

Sometimes— For half a second— You swear you hear him.

Your heart leaps. You run to the front door. It's never him. Three weeks after the Snap, Karen brings groceries. You don't answer. She lets herself in with the spare key Frank insisted someone keep. She finds you sitting on the kitchen floor. Still wearing the same sweatshirt you'd worn the day the world ended.

The coffee mug in your hands is empty. Cold.

"…Honey?" You look up.

"…I forgot how to make coffee." Karen kneels beside you. The coffee maker is already full. Ready. You'd just… Forgotten to press the button. She cries harder than you do.

Matt visits every Thursday. He never announces himself. He simply knocks twice. Lets himself in. Makes dinner. Leaves. Some Thursdays, you don't speak. He doesn't mind. He just sits across from you while the apartment echoes with a silence that used to belong to Frank.

Month three.

Steve asks if you'll come back.

"We need everybody." You shake your head.

"No."

"They need you."

"They're dead." His face falls.

"So are we." You close the door. You stop answering your phone. Natasha leaves voicemails anyway. Tony sends texts. Bruce stops by. Rhodey too. Eventually… They stop asking. Not because they've given up. Because they know. Some wounds don't close because someone tells you to keep living. The apartment becomes a museum. Frank's jacket remains hanging by the door. His shaving razor stays beside the sink. His coffee mug never gets washed. The indentation on his side of the mattress slowly fades.

That one hurts the most. You start sleeping there. Not because you want to. Because you can't bear watching it disappear.

Six months.

The nightmares begin. Sometimes Peter is reaching for you. Sometimes Frank. Sometimes both. Every dream ends the same way. Ash slipping through your fingers. You wake up grabbing empty sheets.

One year.

The city has learned to be quiet. There are fewer cars. Fewer lights. Too many empty apartments. The grocery store closes two aisles permanently because there aren't enough customers anymore. Children stop asking where their parents went. They already know. That hurts worse.

You stop being an Avenger. Not officially. You simply… Never come back. Your armor gathers dust. Your communicator dies in a drawer somewhere. The world keeps spinning.

Without you.

Some days… You don't get dressed.

Some days… You forget what day it is.

Some days… You stand in front of the bathroom mirror and think—

It would've been easier if I'd gone too.

The thought frightens you. Not because you want to die. Because you don't care very much whether you wake up tomorrow. There's a difference. It doesn't feel like one.

Year two.

Karen convinces you to walk outside. Just once. The coffee shop on the corner still remembers Frank's order.

"Large."

"Black." The barista starts making it automatically. Then freezes.

"…I'm sorry." You smile. The first genuine smile in nearly two years.

"It's okay." You buy it anyway. You carry it all the way home. You set it on his side of the kitchen table. It goes cold.

Year three.

Steve comes again. This time… He looks hopeful.

"We found something." You don't answer. "There might be a way." Silence. "Time travel." You laugh. Not because it's funny. Because it's cruel.

"You think you can outrun this?"

"We have to try." You shake your head.

"I already watched him die once."

"This would undo that."

"Or I'll watch him die twice." Steve has no answer. When he leaves… The apartment feels even emptier than before.

Year four.

The panic attacks become quieter. More dangerous. They don't make you cry anymore.

Instead… You simply stop. Standing in grocery aisles. At crosswalks. In the shower. You stare into nothing until someone says your name. You forget entire afternoons. Matt notices. He starts staying longer. Neither of you mentions it.

Year five.

The calendar still has Frank's handwriting on it. Dentist - Tuesday. Pick up dry cleaning. Movie night. You never change it. Then… One rainy afternoon…

Tony Stark knocks on your door himself. Not in armor. Just Tony. Older.

More tired. He looks at you for a long moment.

"You look awful."

"So do you."

"Fair." Silence. He doesn't smile.

"I think…" He rubs a hand across his beard. "I think we figured it out." You stare at him blankly.

"What?"

"A way."

"No."

"A real one."

"No."

"We can bring them back."

"No." Tony's brow furrows.

"You don't even know what I'm going to say."

"I know enough."

"You don't believe me."

"I don't believe in miracles anymore." He flinches.

"I don't need you to."

"I watched him turn to dust in my arms." His eyes soften.

"I know."

"I held Peter while he begged me not to let him die."

"I know."

"I buried people who didn't even leave bodies."

"I know."

"My husband disappeared."

"I know."

"My kid disappeared."

"I know."

"My world ended."

"I know." You look away. Voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm tired of hoping." Because hope… Hope is what made you listen for Frank's footsteps every night for months.

Hope is what made you leave his side of the closet untouched.

Hope is what convinced you, for just one impossible second, that every knock at the door might be him.

Hope had become another way to lose him.

Tony doesn't argue. He simply walks farther into the apartment. His eyes land on Frank's boots. Still by the door. Five years later. Exactly where he'd left them. Tony closes his eyes. Then quietly says,

"…I'll bring him home to you, kid." You don't answer. Not because you don't hear him. Because somewhere deep inside yourself- In a place grief buried years ago— A tiny, terrified part of you is suddenly more frightened of hope than it ever was of despair.

Tony leaves.

The apartment falls silent again. You don't call him back. You don't even watch him walk away. The front door clicks shut. And you stand there…

Staring at Frank's boots. Exactly where he'd left them.

You don't join the mission. You don't help build the machine. You don't suit up. You don't answer another phone call. If they truly can change time… You decide you'll find out afterward. You can't survive another promise.

The nightmares get worse. Not louder. Quieter. Some nights Frank doesn't disappear. Instead… He comes home. He drops his keys in the bowl. Calls your name. Wraps his arms around your waist while you're making coffee. You laugh.You kiss him. He asks how your day was. You tell him about Peter. About Karen. About Matt. About absolutely nothing.

It feels…Perfect.

Then— Ash begins falling from his hair. You scream before he even notices.

"Frank—" He looks confused.

"What?" His hand disappears.

"No." His smile falters.

"Baby?"

"No, please—" His face crumbles apart. This time… He isn't even afraid. He simply watches you.

"I'm sorry." Then he's gone.

Every.

Single.

Night.

You stop sleeping in the bed. The dreams are waiting there. Instead you sleep on the living-room floor. Sometimes in the bathtub. Sometimes sitting upright against the wall with a pistol in your lap. If you never really sleep… The dreams can't catch you.

One night… You hear a woman scream.

Real. Not imagined. Outside. Three blocks away. You don't think. You move.

The mugger never sees you coming. One punch. His jaw breaks. He reaches for a knife. You take it away. Break three fingers. Leave him crying in an alley until the police arrive.

When you get home… Your hands are shaking. Not from fear.

For the first time in years… Your mind is quiet. You sleep six straight hours. The next week… It's another scream. Another alley. Another gang. Another fight. Another night without dreams. You begin to understand. Violence doesn't make you happy.

It makes you… Empty.

And empty is infinitely better than drowning. It becomes routine. The city sleeps. You don't. You patrol rooftops. Subway stations. Construction sites. The neighborhoods Frank always insisted on checking twice. You wear no colors. No Avengers insignia. No shield. No emblem.

Just black. Just blades. Just bruises.

The newspapers invent names.

"The Ghost."

"The Widow."

"The Wraith of Hell's Kitchen."

You never read them. Criminals begin whispering. Not because you're theatrical. Because you're efficient. You don't make speeches. You don't threaten. You simply appear. And when it's over… You disappear again.

Matt finds out first. Of course he does. He hears your heartbeat from two rooftops away. Hears the broken ribs. The knife entering someone else's shoulder. The way you stop breathing entirely before you strike.

One night- He lands beside you.

"You need to stop." You keep cleaning blood from your knuckles.

"So stop me." He says nothing. Because he knows. He probably can't. Karen sees you six weeks later. You answer the door with a split lip. Bruised cheek. Fresh stitches across your ribs. She doesn't ask. She already knows.

"You look like him." You freeze.

"What?" She swallows.

"From years ago." Silence. "You look exactly like Frank did." You close the door. You don't speak to her again for three months. The bruises become familiar. The cuts. The broken fingers. The cracked ribs. You patch yourself up the same way Frank used to. Needle. Thread. Whiskey.

Silence.

Sometimes… While sewing your own shoulder closed… You laugh. A small, humorless sound.

"So this is what it felt like." You stop fearing death. Not because you want it. Because it stops feeling important. If someone finally gets lucky… Fine. Maybe you'll see him again.

If they don't… Tomorrow is another rooftop. Another gang. Another night your head stays blessedly quiet. Steve comes looking for you once.

He finds three unconscious traffickers zip-tied to a lamppost. A fourth is coughing blood. You're wiping your knife clean.

"You've changed."

"So has the world."

"This isn't you." You finally look at him. Eyes hollow.

"You don't know who I am anymore."

"I know who Frank would've wanted you to be." That one lands. Hard. You don't answer. You simply walk away. Tony sends Happy. Bruce sends Natasha. Natasha sends Clint. Nobody reaches you.

Not really. You're always somewhere else. Always chasing the next emergency. Because if you're fighting… You're not remembering. If your fists hurt… Your chest doesn't. If your lungs are burning… You're not hearing Peter say,

"I'm scared." You're not feeling Frank dissolve in your arms. Pain has become medicine.

Violence… Anesthesia.

By the time Tony finally calls to say,

"We're ready." Your apartment is almost empty. Frank's boots are still by the door. Everything else… Has been packed away. Not because you've moved on. Because looking at it all finally became impossible. You stand in the doorway for a long time before leaving. Your hand brushes the leather of one boot.

Still dusty. Still waiting. Just like you. You whisper into the silence—

"I hope you're wrong, Tony." Not because you want him to fail. Because you've spent five years teaching yourself how to survive a world without Frank. And somewhere deep down… The idea that he might actually come home feels more terrifying than believing he never could.

-----

The night is quiet. Too quiet.

Hell's Kitchen always sounds different after midnight. Distant sirens. Traffic. Arguments drifting up from the sidewalks. Tonight… Nothing. You stand on the edge of an abandoned warehouse roof, the city spread beneath you in a sea of yellow lights.

Five years. Five years of fighting. Five years of bleeding. Five years of waking up disappointed that you hadn't died in your sleep.

Your suit is torn.

Your knuckles are split open. There's dried blood under every fingernail. Some of it's yours. Most of it isn't. You look down. It's a long way to the pavement. High enough. Probably.

Maybe not.

You don't particularly care. Your fingers loosen around the edge of the rooftop.

"…Frank." The name disappears into the wind. "I'm tired." No answer. Of course not. You laugh. Small. Empty. "You won." Not Thanos. Grief. It won. You close your eyes. One step. That's all it takes. Just—

"Don't." The voice hits you like a gunshot. You spin. Impossible. A man stands in the doorway leading to the roof. Long hair. Metal arm. Blue eyes.

"…Bucky?" He stares at you. Not with confusion. Recognition. Pain. Relief.

"You remember me." You blink.

"…No." He takes one careful step forward. "You…" Your voice catches. "No." His expression crumples.

"I know."

"No." You shake your head harder. "I watched you."

"I know."

"You disappeared."

"I know."

"I watched you turn into dust."

"I know."

"So you're not…" You take another stumbling step backward. "You're not real." His jaw tightens.

"I am."

"No."

"You are."

"No!" Your heel reaches the edge of the building. You don't notice. Bucky does. His entire body goes rigid.

"Don't move."

"I already buried you." His eyes fill.

"You didn't bury anybody."

"I watched you die."

"I know."

"You can't be here." Another careful step.

"I am."

"No!" Another.

"You gotta breathe."

"I'm dreaming."

"No."

"I'm dead."

"No."

"I'm finally dead."

"No." He moves. Fast. Faster than your exhausted body can react. The metal arm hooks around your waist just as your foot slips backward into empty air. You gasp. Suddenly you're no longer falling. You're pinned against a solid chest. Held. Hard. The way someone holds another person when they're terrified of letting go.

"Let me go!" you scream, struggling weakly against him.

"No."

"Let me go!"

"No."

"I have to—I have to be with him- I have to join him-"

"No!" The shout echoes across the rooftops. For a second… Everything stops. His breathing is uneven against your temple. His arms are shaking. Not from effort. From fear. "You don't get to do this."

"I have nothing left! Let me go ! I want to be with my husband!"

"You've got me."

"You were dead!"

"I was."

"You disappeared!"

"I did."

"You—"

"I came back." Silence. You stop fighting. Very slowly… You look up at him. Really look. There's new stubble. A fresh scar near his eyebrow. His heartbeat. You can hear it. Strong. Steady. Real.

"…How?" His throat works.

"Tony." You frown.

"What?"

"He figured it out." Your brows knit together.

"…No."

"He did."

"No."

"We went back."

"No."

"We got the Stones."

"No."

"He snapped." Your stomach drops.

"…Tony?" Bucky closes his eyes.

"He saved everybody." Silence. "But…" His voice breaks. "It killed him." The words don't register. You simply stare.

"He…" You swallow. "…Tony's…" Bucky nods once.

"He saved us.We don't... remember anything. It feels like five minutes ago Thanos did his snap but... it's been five years." The rooftop tilts beneath your feet. You grip the front of his jacket.

"…Peter?"

"Alive." Your breathing catches.

"…Sam?"

"Alive."

"…Wanda?"

"Alive."

"…T'Challa?"

"Alive." Each answer lands like another impossible heartbeat.

"…Frank?" Bucky doesn't answer immediately. Instead… He reaches up with his flesh hand. Very gently… He brushes a tear off your cheek.

"Yeah." One word. That's all it takes. The dam breaks. You fold. Not gracefully. Not dramatically. Your knees simply give out beneath you. A sound tears out of your chest that you've been holding in for five years. You sob. Violently. Your whole body convulses.

"I couldn't—" The words dissolve. "I tried—" Another sob. "I couldn't save them." Bucky lowers himself to the rooftop with you still in his arms. He doesn't try to stop the crying. He just holds on. The way Steve held him after HYDRA. The way someone holds another human being who's forgotten how.

"I know."

"I wasn't there."

"I know."

"I didn't believe Tony."

"I know."

"I wanted…" You choke on the confession. "…I wanted to die." Bucky's grip tightens.

"I know."

"I almost—"

"I know."

"I couldn't do it anymore."

"I know." His own voice starts shaking.

"None of us blamed you."

"I blamed me."

"I know." You cry until there are no tears left. Until you're just shaking. Breathing in broken little gasps against his shoulder. Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Eventually… Bucky speaks again. Very quietly.

"He's been looking for you." You don't respond. "The first thing he asked was where his wife was." Your breath catches. "He thought…" Bucky smiles sadly. "He thought maybe Thanos had gotten to you. He has no idea how long it's been."

It hurts.

God… It hurts.

You stare out across the city. The sunrise is beginning to stain the horizon gold.

"I don't…" Your voice is tiny. "I don't know how to see him." Bucky looks at you.

"What?"

"I spent five years learning how to survive without him. He thinks it's only been a few seconds." Another tear slips free. "What if…" You can't finish. "What if he looks at me and doesn't recognize me anymore?" Bucky's expression breaks.

"He'll recognize you."

"I've changed."

"So has he."

"I became…" You look down at your blood-covered hands."…something awful." Bucky reaches over. Without hesitation… He takes one of those stained hands in both of his.

"I know exactly what it's like…" He squeezes gently. "…to think the person you love will only see the monster." Your eyes lift to his.

"And?" A small smile.

"The people who love us…" His gaze drifts toward the rising sun. "…they usually see the parts we forgot were still there." He stands first. Then offers you his hand. Not pulling. Just waiting.

"You wanna go see your husband?" Your lips part. For the first time in five years… Hope doesn't feel like a knife. It feels terrifying. Fragile. Beautiful. With trembling fingers… You place your hand in his.

"…Yeah." Your voice cracks around the word. "So bad." Bucky helps you to your feet. The way to the compound feels surreal. Almost like a sick version of deja vu.

Five years since you stepped foot in this building.

Five years since everything fell apart.

You half expect Tony to greet you, arms wide open. But he doesn't.

The halls are brighter than you remember.

Cleaner.

Someone rebuilt this place while you were busy trying to survive. You don't recognize half the faces that pass you. Some of them smile. Some of them stop dead when they see you. They've heard stories.

The Ghost. The woman who refused to stop fighting after half the world disappeared. None of them say a word. Bucky stays beside you. Never touching. Just close enough that if your knees give out again…

He'll catch you.

"You alright?" he asks quietly. You almost laugh.

"No." He nods.

"I figured." The elevator doors slide open. The medical wing.

Clint is already waiting.

He looks older. More gray at his temples. More tired around the eyes. But he smiles the second he sees Bucky. Then he sees you. The smile disappears.

"…Oh." His eyes travel over the old scars. The fresh ones. The bruises blooming across your knuckles. The exhaustion carved permanently into your face. He doesn't ask. He doesn't have to.

"You found her." Bucky nods. "Almost too late."

Clint closes his eyes for one long second. Then—

"He's in here. Peter and the others already went home." Your heart stops. Clint reaches for the door handle.

"You don't have to—"

"I'm ready." You're lying. He knows it. Still… He opens the door. Frank is sitting on an examination table. Bruce has electrodes stuck to his chest. A blood pressure cuff squeezes one arm. Someone has clipped a pulse oximeter to his finger. He's arguing.

"I told ya, I'm fine."

"You were dead for five years."

"I was dead for five seconds."

"You don't actually know that."

"I feel fine." Bruce sighs.

"Frank—" Then… Frank looks toward the door. His entire world stops.

"…Baby?" You freeze. He's… Exactly the same..

Same hair.

Same eyes.

The same tiny scar above his eyebrow from years ago. He looks like he walked out of your apartment yesterday. He looks… Home.

Frank doesn't even think. He rips the pulse oximeter off his finger. The heart monitor leads come away with it. Bruce opens his mouth.

"Fra—" Too late. Frank is already moving. He crosses the room in three long strides. Then he's there. His hands cup your face.

Warm. Solid. Real.

"Oh, thank God." He laughs. Actually laughs.

"I thought—" His voice breaks. "I thought maybe he got you." His forehead presses against yours. "I've been askin' everybody where my wife is." He smiles through wet eyes. "There you are." He pulls you into him. Hard. Like he always does. Like he's terrified you'll disappear too. His arms wrap around your back. He buries his face against your neck. "I gotcha."

Silence.

He waits for you to hug him back. You don't. Not because you don't want to. Because… You can't. Your arms hang uselessly at your sides. Your body refuses to believe he's real. Frank notices almost immediately. He leans back just enough to see your face. The smile slips.

"…Baby?" You stare at him. Studying every line. Every freckle. The way his beard hasn't grown in. The warmth coming off his skin. Your fingers rise slowly. Almost fearfully. You touch his cheek. Your hand trembles violently.

"…You're warm." He gives a confused little laugh.

"Yeah…"

"You…" Your thumb traces the scar over his eyebrow. "…You're really here."

"I'm here." Your breathing begins to shake.

"No…" His smile falters.

"What?"

"You can't…" You shake your head. "This isn't…" Your chest caves inward. "I buried you." Frank's brow furrows.

"What?"

"I buried you." His confusion deepens.

"What're you talkin' about?"

"You were gone." His eyes flick toward Bucky. Then Bruce. Neither of them says anything. Understanding begins to dawn. Slowly. Painfully. He looks back at you.

"…How long?" You can't answer. Bucky does.

"Five years." Frank goes completely still.

"…What?"

"To them…" Bucky says quietly. "It was five years." Frank looks back at you. Really looks. Notices the scars. The weight you've lost. The dark circles beneath your eyes. The way your hands won't stop shaking.

"…Baby." His voice is barely there. "What happened?" That question— That stupid, innocent question— Breaks the last thing holding you together. You throw yourself against him. This time your arms wrap around him so tightly he actually stumbles backward a step. A sob tears out of you.

Violent. Animal.

"I tried." Your fists bunch in the back of his shirt. "I tried so hard." Frank's arms lock around you immediately.

"Hey." He stares at you. Not speaking. Just … Looking. Looking at the woman who used to steal fries off his plate. Who laughed too loudly. Who danced barefoot in the kitchen while making coffee. Who kissed him every morning before work.

She's still here.

But she's buried under five years of grief.

Five years… That, to him… Never happened.

"Hey, mama, c'mere." he whispers, pulling you in, lips pressed to your temple as you sob. You hear the door close softly behind you, telling you Bruce and Bucky have left the room- and your whole body just gives up.

You go crashing to the floor, sobbing hard as Frank follows, tucking you against his chest.

"I'm sorry." You cry. "I'm so sorry." Frank shushes you, rocking you back and forth.

"Shh..Shh.. what are you sorry for , pretty girl ?"

"I-I was gonna-" You hiccup."I was gonna try to join you."

Frank stills. Not physically. Physically, he keeps rocking you, one broad hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles between your shoulder blades. But inside…

Everything stops.

"…What?" Your face disappears deeper into his chest.

"I couldn't…" You can't catch your breath. Every word is ripped apart by sobs. "I couldn't do it anymore." His arms tighten instinctively.

"Hey…"

"I tried so hard. I fought." Your fingers clutch at the front of his shirt like you're afraid he'll disappear again. "God, Frankie, I fought so hard." His chin rests on top of your head.

"I have no doubt you did."

"No…" You shake your head violently. "You don't." Because he can't. How could he? To him, he'd kissed you goodbye. Then Thanos snapped. Now you're here. Three heartbeats later. He never lived the years in between.

"I waited," you whisper. His brow furrows.

"What?"

"I waited for months." Your voice has gone distant now. Like you're watching someone else's memories. "I kept your coffee mug by the sink." Frank's throat tightens. "I washed your clothes because…" A broken laugh escapes you. "…because they smelled like you." His eyes close. "I couldn't let the smell go." Your shoulders shake harder. "I slept on your side of the bed."

"You…"

"I thought…" Another hiccupping breath. "Maybe if I slept where you slept…" You squeeze your eyes shut. "…I'd dream about you." Frank's vision blurs.

"…Baby."

"I talked to you." Every word lands like another knife. "Every morning." His hand cups the back of your head. "I'd make coffee." Another sob. "And I'd tell you about my day." He can't speak. "I'd leave your boots by the door." Your voice cracks completely. "…In case you came home." Frank lets out the smallest, most broken sound. "I never stopped waiting." Silence. Then— "It got harder." You stare somewhere past him. Past the room. Past today. " God, Frank, it got so hard. I stopped hearing your voice." His heart splinters. "I couldn't remember your laugh exactly."

"Baby…"

"So I started listening to old recordings." Your breathing catches. "Over." A swallow. "And over." Another. "And over. I was scared…" Your lips tremble. "…that I'd forget you." Frank buries his face in your hair.

"You never would've."

"I almost did."

"No."

"I remembered pieces." You smile through tears. "The way you'd steal my fries." A watery laugh. "The way you snored."

"I do not snore."

"You absolutely snore."

"I breathe aggressively." Despite everything… You laugh. It's tiny. Broken. But it's there. Frank almost cries harder hearing it. Then your smile disappears.

"And then…" Your voice empties. "People stopped saying your name." His chest aches. "They stopped asking how I was. They thought…They thought I was better." He shakes his head. "They were wrong."

"Sweetheart-"

"I smiled." You shrug helplessly. "I went grocery shopping. I paid bills. I washed dishes. I even laughed sometimes." Your eyes meet his. "But every single day…" A tear slips free. "…I wanted to come home to you." Frank's face crumples. Your hand reaches up, cupping his cheek. "So I started fighting." He notices your knuckles again. The scars. The old fractures that healed crooked.

"You see these?" He nods slowly. "I stopped caring if I got hurt." His stomach twists. "I hoped somebody would eventually be faster."

"No…"

"I hoped I'd lose."

"No."

"I wanted somebody to kill me." His entire body jerks.

"No."

"So I wouldn't have to do it myself." The room goes deathly quiet. Frank just… Looks at you. At the woman he loves more than breathing. Who'd spent five years slowly disappearing. Because he'd disappeared first. His eyes overflow.

"Oh, my love…" His voice is shattered.

"Tonight.. I found the tallest building. I was going to-"

"I'm so sorry." You blink.

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

"You didn't—"

"I left you."

"You couldn't help it."

"I know." His thumb wipes away another tear. "But I still left you."

"You didn't choose—"

"I know." His forehead presses against yours. "I know." He takes a shaky breath.

"But while I was gone…" His voice breaks completely. "…you carried all of me by yourself."

You start crying again.

"I was so tired. I didn't want to be brave anymore."

"I know."

"I didn't want to wake up anymore. I missed you."

"I know." The words come out almost like prayers now. Small. Fragile. You curl closer, until you're practically folded into him.

"I kept thinking…" You sniff hard. "…if I could just hold you one more time…" Frank wraps both arms around you so tightly that you can barely breathe.

"I'm here."

"I know."

"I'm not going anywhere." Another nod.

"I know."

"I mean it." His hand slides into your hair. "You hear me?" You close your eyes.

"I hear you."

"I ain't leavin' again." His voice shakes. "I don't care if I gotta haunt God himself." A tiny, watery laugh escapes you. "I'll find my way back." Another laugh. Smaller. Realer.

"I believe you." He kisses your forehead. Then your temple. Then the corner of your eye where tears keep collecting.

"So listen to me now." He waits until you look at him. Really look. "If you ever get that tired again…" His thumb strokes your cheek. "If you ever think about doing that again…" His own tears spill freely now. "You tell me." You swallow.

"I couldn't."

"You do."

"I don't wanna burden you." His expression twists.

"You are never a burden."

"I—"

"Never." He says it with such certainty that it steals the next apology from your mouth. "I carried guns." He brushes your hair behind your ear. "You carried grief. I think yours was heavier." You shake your head.

"No." He smiles sadly.

"We're done carrying things alone." Your lips tremble.

"…Promise?" He doesn't hesitate.

"Promise." He hooks his little finger around yours, the way he'd done years ago over stupid things like remembering milk from the grocery store. It almost makes you laugh.

"You still do that?"

"Always worked before." You curl your pinky around his. The gesture feels impossibly small. Impossibly normal. After five years of surviving. It feels like the first piece of home you've touched. Frank presses one last kiss to your knuckles. Then gathers you back into his arms. This time, neither of you says anything. You simply sit together on the medical room floor, holding each other while the impossible truth slowly settles between you.

taglist !

@overdrive1975 , @alialuvsreid, @nanni197, @goawayplease95 , @yesshewrites1, @carolinaxvz , @sofianotvergara , @bearisbored , @jbrownta , @cafieeee, @hardnightmarekitten, @kikibear33, @sweetbabygirlsworld, @rainyapricotcreatorparty , @gingin3-blog , @pinkypiezzz, @mayawainfleet, @tiredstressedanddepressed2, @timelessskyautomaton, @yakydrah

[carmaloves]

𝑰 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆

Michael Jackson x Singer!Reader

Synopsis: There was something special about your relationship with Michael. You had met Michael when you signed with Epic Records in 1980. He had just finished up his solo album Off the Wall, while you had just begun the process of making your first record. Small glances while passing each other in the halls on the way to your seperate studios grew into something far more delicate. After catching Michael with his ear pressed ip to your studio door, trying to listen to you singing, you took it upon yourself to make the first move. The relationship blossomed into something sweeter than just young love. But what goes up must come back down. Era: All, but a focus on Thriller and Mature Content/Warnings: ANGST weewooweewoo. mentions of fertility issues. mensions of the Pepsi incident. Hints to depression. Hurt and Comfort. Happy ending. Michael does reader dirty Word Count: 4.3k Not proofread (sue me, I'm tired)

Masterlist

I got this idea based off of What If I Miss You Forever by Janine Berdin! That is the kind of vibe of readers career. The story mentions that the reader has written the song, that is obviously not true lol. It is just used for fictional purposes!

You opened the door of the sound booth, only to be met with an unsuspecting Michael Jackson falling suddenly in front of you.

You stepped back instinctively. "Michael??" You carefully bent down to help him stand up, offering him your hand.

He took it, ears red from embarrassment. "Oh hey, wasn't expecting to find you here..." He quickly stood up, shoving his hands in his pocket.

"Michael what? This is the studio I have booked for the day." You looked at him in pure confusion.

Somehow he got even more red in the face. "Right, yeah. I knew that. I was just, I heard you singing from the hallway, and I wanted to get a clearer shot of your vocals."

It was your turn for your face to turn red. "That's very sweet of you... did you like them?" You were nervous to hear the answer.

He nodded. "Yeah, they're different. In a good way! I mean Epic doesn't really sign rock singers as much as they do Pop, but I see why they jumped at the chance to get you."

Your skin felt hot, "Wow, that's, that's quite the compliment coming from you."

He smiled, opening his mouth to respond when Quincy stuck his head into the room. "Applehead, you're on company time, let's go. You can flirt with the pretty girl later, but right now we need you in the booth." He disappeared, leaving both you and Michael nervously looking at each other.

"It was really nice talking to you, and hearing you sing of course." He smiled and stepped towards the door. Now was your chance, what is there to lose other than a bit of a little bit of your dignity? The worst thing he could say was no.

"Michael, do you maybe wanna hang out sometime?" You blurted it out before you could talk yourself out of it.

He froze at the door and looked back at you, "Yes!" he practically shouted it and then cleared his throat, "I mean, yeah that would be fun. I'll pick you up when you're finished recording for the day." He smiled and stepped out the door

"How will you know when I'm done? Should I call you, or tell Frank?" You followed him to the door, standing in the frame.

As he continued down the hall towards his studio he looked at you over his shoulder, "Don't worry! I have my ways."

You smiled and shut the door, feeling like a silly high school girl again.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

As promised, Michael picked you up from the studio, or rather Bill had picked the both of you up and drove you to an arcade Michael loved to go to.

Before getting out Michael gave you a big scarf, some glasses, and a ridiculous hat. And he put on the fakest looking mustache, a newsboy hat, and a letterman jacket with the biggest popped collar you had ever seen. You looked at him "Seriously? Why do I need a disguise? I don't even have any songs out yet."

He shrugged, "I thought we could look silly together, but if you don't want to..." He trailed off taking the nerdy glasses he gave you.

You immediately grabbed them back, "Gimme the dang glasses."

He laughed hard looking at your disguise, and you in turn laughed at him. Every time one of you got composed, the other's continuous laughter would cause another round of giggles. You were both doubled over, holding your stomach as your abs burned from all the laughing.

Bill looked back at the two of you from the front seat. "Are you two going to laugh the whole time or are you actually going to go into the arcade?"

Michael nodded and opened the door finally, holding your hand and helping you step out of the car. The arcade was surprisingly pretty empty save for a few groups of kids running around wildly while their babysitters sat looking too exhausted to debunk your disguises.

And so began a night of fun and deadly competition. You and Michael were both fiercely competitive, especially when it came to the pac man machine tucked in the back.

You both stayed huddled in the corner of the arcade with bright blue slushies and a small thing of popcorn. You had a bright blue tongue practically the whole night, and got multiple brain freezes, but that didn't stop you from somehow beating Michaels high score on the game. The second you won you jumped up and down whooping, just absolutely hooting and hollering.

"BOOM! In yo face, mister 'oh i have the high score in pac man and no one could possibly beat me!' Well guess what?! You just got schooled! WOOOOOOOOO!" You taunted him.

Despite the loss, he grinned at you as you jumped around him and took a victory lap around the arcade. He smiled and thought to himself as he watched your lips curve into a wide smile.

Oh she's bad news.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You and Michael had been going very steady for around four almost five years now. He was in the height of his second album Thriller, and you were still riding off the success of your first album. It was 1984, and he was set to go on tour with his brothers in July. It was now early February.

After a year and a half of dating, you both decided hiding from the public wasn't worth the hassle anymore and announced your relationship through Epic.

The reaction was very mixed, some people loved the relationship, and others despised it. You knew it wouldn't be easy, you knew there would be a lot of talk about your relationship with Michael. And you had stayed strong and by his side no matter what was thrown in your path.

You had stuck out Joseph Jackson's disapproval of the relationship, stuck out rumors of other women being involved with Michael. Your relationship could handle a lot.

But there were some things that it just couldn't hold up.

You knew how badly Michael wanted children, children of his own. And you wanted more than anything to be able to give him that. You wanted that domestic life with Michael. You wanted a home that you could call your own, a horde of little kids running around, a home full of love.

Two weeks ago, right before the Pepsi commercial accident, you had broken the news to Michael.

You had been having a lot of trouble with your period, and you couldn't help but shake the feeling that something was wrong. And one trip to the doctor had confirmed it. It was unlikely that you would ever be able to have children.

Breaking the news to Michael was one of the hardest things you had ever had to do. You invited him over to your home, and sat him down with a glass of orange juice. Michael could tell there was something going on. You had been unusually quiet the whole day, and as you sat across from him your hands trembled and legs bounced nervously.

He reached across the table and grabbed your hand, "Baby, what's going on. Talk to me."

The term 'baby' immediately caused you to break into sobs, your head falling into your hands. Michael rushed to your side, pulling your hands away, trying to get you to look at him. You just couldn't. You didn't want to see the heartbreak on his face when you told him.

He did his best to soothe you, still not knowing what was going on, but he knew it was serious. You took a shaky breath and grabbed his hand tightly, willing yourself to look at him. "Michael... I can't- I went to the doctor... he said I likely won't ever be able to have children, at least not safely." Speaking the words out loud made you sink even further into despair.

Michael froze, face unreadable as you apologized over and over. He looked like his whole world was crumbling down. First this unwanted tour with his brothers, and now this.

His hand slipped from yours.

Not out of anger with you, you knew that. But you knew this wasn't easy news for him to hear. He sat back on his heels, still kneeled beside you. The room was silent except for your broken sobs that poured from you the longer he sat quietly.

You could see the light had drained from his eyes, and you couldn't help but blame yourself. You loved him so much, you wanted to give him the world, you wanted to give him all that he deserved, and now you couldn't.

He slowly stood up, still deathly quiet. You couldn't even hear his breathing. He grabbed his coat. You stood up, grabbing for his hand, "Michael, please don't go. Please." you begged him.

"I'm sorry, I just.. I need to think." He slipped out the door before you could respond. Gone. Gone just as quickly as he came.

You sank against the door, holding your knees to your chest as you sobbed. "I need you."

Michael stood outside the door, eyes brimming with tears as he listened to your distraught cries. He wanted to go back in, he wanted to be there for you, but he felt like his body physically wouldn't let him. He should have been stronger, you needed him. You were hurting, he knew it, could hear it. But his legs and arms were locked in place, unable to reach back out and open the door. He was ashamed of how cowardly he was being. So instead he went home.

You thought he would call you. But night after night the phone line stayed silent. No matter how many times you had tried to call him, you never got through to him.

The sudden absence of him from your life threw you into a quiet spiral of hatred and longing. You wanted him so bad to walk through your front door and take you in his arms. But you just as badly wanted to scream and yell and cry at him for leaving you like that. It wasn't like he was the only one that wanted children. You did too, you had always wanted to be a mother. Losing both the love of your life and the ability to have children all in the span of a day almost sent you over the edge. You barely left your house, barely left your room, you couldn't stomach eating anything. You felt like you were drowning in the loneliness of your broken heart.

You didn't hear from Michael until two weeks later when Janet called you. Michael was in the hospital, and he needed you. If you had your best interest in mind you would have hung up the phone.

"What hospital is he at?"

Janet told you he was in the process of being transferred to Brotman Memorial Hospital. You got in your car and drove without a second thought.

When you got there you didn't care how much of a wreck you looked, all you cared about was hearing that Michael was okay. Janet met you at the entrance and brought you into a long hug before taking you to Michael's room. You stood outside the door, waiting nervously while Katherine talked to Michael. Janet held your hand tightly, knowing you both needed someone to hold onto. Joseph came down the hall, immediately spotting you and looking over your sad appearance. You could see the disgust written on his face, and normally you never let it get to you, but you couldn't find the strength to brush it off. You suddenly became all too aware of the large bags under your eyes, the tangles and knots in your hair, and the large oversized shirt that belonged to Michael.

Katherine stepped out of the room a few minutes after and nodded to you. You took a breath and quietly stepped into the room. The sight of Michael stung your heart. He looked utterly lost and defeated.

"Michael?" You spoke his name softly, moving with uneasy steps to his bed.

He looked to you, all light drained from his once bright eyes. "You came."

"Of course I did." You settled into a chair beside his bed.

"I didn't think you would." There was a sharp bite to his words, one that stung you sharply.

"That's not fair, Mike. And you know it."

Silence settled into the air, the kind that choked you with unease.

You decided to be the one to break it, "I'll always be here for you, Michael."

Wrong choice.

"No you won't." He sounded so sure. So distant.

"Yes, I will." You fought back.

"This isn't going to work." He spoke harshly.

Your breath caught, "You don't mean that, you're on a lot of pain medication."

"I mean it." He shot back, "It's not going to work. I'm about to go on tour, you have your second album coming up, I'm working on my third. I'm trying to save us both a lot of pain in the long run."

"Then I'll push back my album, Michael please. Don't do this." Tears attacked your eyes.

"You should go." He wouldn't look at you.

"No. No, you don't get to throw this away without looking me in the eye. Do not hide from me. Look me in the eye and tell me it's over. Look me in the eye and break my heart." You weren't going to let him be a coward.

His jaw clenched and he looked at you. Eyes glossed and distant. "You broke mine first. It's time for us to get on with our lives before it becomes too hard."

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. As soon as he saw that sad look on his face he knew he was making a mistake.

He knew he was pushing you away. He knew he was being too harsh. He knew he was breaking you, but he figured it would save you in the long run. He figured you deserved better, someone who could care for you without running, someone who could hold you when you cried.

You swallowed hard and nodded once, standing up and going to the door. You looked back at him, "I really hope you find what you're looking for Michael."

His heart stopped, hearing you say those words. He felt his world colliding in on itself. "Wait, wait, wait. Baby, no. I'm sorry. I don't mean it. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please just wait."

But you were gone. No anger, no hatred, no hysterics, just quiet broken acceptance.

Now that you had been the one to leave, Michael understood how much pain he had caused you. He wanted to take everything back, he would have given his soul to turn back time somehow. But he couldn't and you were gone.

He kept calling your name, pleading for you to come back, even though he knew you were probably leaving the hospital just as broken as he was.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Michael changed after that. Everyone could see it. There was always a small spark missing. No matter how many hit songs, how many sold out shows, adoring fans, broken records, none of it could replace what you gave him.

He tracked your success over the years, quietly and discreetly doing what he could to promote your music career without it being tied to his name.

He rarely spoke about you in public after that. He made sure interviewers knew that the topic of you was off limits, he made sure that you wouldn't ever have to be tied down to his name.

He had spoken about you in an interview once, not directly. The interviewer had asked about a recent performance of his that was catching a lot of people's attention. He had performed She's Out of My Life as a surprise at one of his concerts. When he originally recorded it for Off the Wall he didn't have anyone in mind, the song was just emotional. But as he sang the song all he could think about was you, how much he missed every inch of you. He didn't even get through the first verse before he started crying. To everyone in the audience it was clear that singing this was wrecking him emotionally, which is why the press were up in arms about it. Everyone wanted to know who had this effect on Michael Jackson, and no one suspected you because you and Michael hadn't been together in years. "Who were you thinking about when you sang that song, Michael?"

"I was thinking about this girl who I hurt beyond repair. Y'know, this girl, I haven't seen her in a long time, at least not in person. But, she was just everything to me, and I was.. y'know a real jerk to her. I miss her a lot, and uh, I don't think that feeling will ever go away." It didn't take long for people to connect his words back to you. And after that he swore he wouldn't bring you up publically ever again.

But in private. There wasn't a day where he didn't say your name. Whether it be to himself, to his animal friends, to Janet, to Bill, to Quincy, Michael never stopped talking about you. You plagued him.

Almost everyone had begged him to reach out, to get closure so he could stop dragging it out. But he couldn't. His brothers tried to set him up with girls, Janet tried taking him to your house, Bill had even rung your phone and stuck it in front of Michael. But each time he found the strength to call or knock on your door, he couldn't. All he could remember is how he stood outside of the door as he listened to your sobs. All he could think of is how badly he had failed and hurt you. So he would put the phone down, or he would walk back to the car with his head hung low in shame. The cycle was vicious.

He had watched an interview of you one time, you had been asked about your dream home. He immediately recognized the look in your eye, it was the same one he got when he thought of you. You perfectly described the home that the two of you had dreamt up together. A safe haven, a place full of magic and childlike wonder. You said you had always wanted a zipline that could take you across the house, and had wanted a large pool.

He looked out the window of the Neverland Ranch, eyes finding the zipline immediately.

The interview continued playing on the TV. He tuned it out as he looked over the Neverland Ranch imagining what it would be like with you there, until a question caught his ear.

"And what are your thoughts about the things being said about Michael Jackson?"

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You never got over Michael. Not even a little bit. You didn't even try, there were no hookups or boyfriends you knew wouldn't last. There was just the memory of Michael.

Lately it was getting harder and harder to ignore his name. There were ridiculous headlines, stupid conspiracies that followed him everywhere. You were sick of it, he was a good man. He had done so much for so many people and got relentlessly bullied in return. That's why when you were sent over a list of questions for an upcoming interview, you gave the okay to a certain question.

"And what are your thoughts about the things being said about Michael Jackson?"

You sat up a bit, "I think it's stupid really, absolutely ridiculous."

"Really, you don't think any of it is true?"

"No. Not a bone in my body believes the things people say about him. He doesn't bleach his skin, and he most certainly doesn't endanger children."

"You say that with such a conviction, why?"

"Because I knew him. I saw the little things he did that no one else saw. I spent 4 beautiful years with him, and not one time did I ever get the impression that he was this bad person that the media makes him out to be. And if people don't like that, then they need to touch back in with reality."

The interviewer was practically bubbling over with joy. You knew that you were supposed to stay calm, answer the question with a clear head, but you just couldn't. "It sounds like you still have strong feelings towards Mr. Jackson."

Your blood ran cold, you froze in the chair. The lights around you were suddenly too bright, and you could feel all the eyes lingering on you. Your manager quickly stepped in, helping you stand up and ushering you off screen, "I think we're done here, that was not an approved question."

You moved slowly, head fuzzy. There it was, that feeling. That feeling of Michael's arm wrapped around you. It felt so comforting yet so cold at the same time.

You couldn't let this keep controlling you. You didn't care if people knew anymore. You didn't care if he knew. You could not keep pretending that you didn't long for him every second of every day.

When you got in the car with your manager you looked to her, "Release it."

She said your name carefully, watching you with unease, "Do you really think that's the best-"

You cut her off "No, I don't. But I don't care. It's my song. I don't care if the label drops me, I don't care if the press runs my name through the mud. I can't do it anymore. I have held all of this in for over a decade. Release the damn song, and dedicate it to him."

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Janet was the one to call Michael when the song was released. "Michael, turn on MTV right now."

"Janet, I'm a little busy right now."

"I don't care, Mike, turn it on." She demanded.

He obliged, turning the channel to MTV. He was met with your gorgeous face.

You stood there beautifully as the band started to play around you. You spoke into the mic with that voice he missed so much, "This song is for the love of my life."

His eyes were fixed onto you, like nothing else in the world mattered.

How could I forget your pretty face?

When you go to places

Do you think of me?

Please think of me

It felt like you were staring at him through the screen. He slowly sank into the large armchair that sat in front of the tv. Despite the years that had passed, your voice sounded just as youthful as it was that time he snuck in to listen to you. You looked like yourself, like this song was a release of your true self, the person that you had kept hidden secretly after everything had happened. It wasn't polished, it wasn't this super rock star, it was you. The girl that he knew, the girl that he never really stopped loving.

The ache hit him just as hard as it did that day in the hospital.

I have built a house where I wait for your return

I only want you to be mine and not a lesson learned

And I will wait and wait and wait until this city burns

I will wait and wait and wait and live on what we were

You blinked back the tears that stung your eyes as the song slowed down.

Michael wanted nothing more than to reach through the screen and pull you into his arms, holding you and promising you forever. He knew now that neither of you had ever forgotten the other. You both had sat in loneliness for so many years. So many years that could have been spent together had one of you just reached out to the other.

Had he not been a coward, you could've been there while Neverland was being built, you could have been there with him at the 1988 Grammys holding his hand when Bad got snubbed. You could've been there while he recovered from the accident. But instead he had pushed you away, and pushed you both into years of quiet defeat.

He wasn't going to waste anymore years.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Now that it was all out there, it was time to try and finally get a move on with your life. Sure the tabloids were blowing up, sure your record was pissed as hell, but a weight had been lifted off your chest.

You sat in your small town home, it was quiet. The quiet used to bother you, but you had grown so accustomed to it, you welcomed it like an old friend. You had thought that by now you would have been settled down, maybe had a few kids, but you don't always get what you want.

A sharp knock on the door snapped you out of your thoughts.

You stood and grabbed a baseball bat. You weren't expecting anyone, and especially not this late at night. You quickly slung the door open, bat ready. But the second you saw him, the bat dropped to the ground. There he stood, hair in dark beautiful layers, wearing a crisp black suit. Your breath left your lungs.

"Michael.."

He looked different from how you had seen him on TV recently. Like he had gained something. Like a spark had ignited in him again. And the spark was strong.

He didn't waste a second, he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you into a deep kiss.

You had dreamt of this so many nights, what you would do if this had happened. Sometimes you dreamt you would yell at him, other times you would cry, sometimes you would freeze. But you didn't do any of that. You met his passion as if it was second nature. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him in closer. The two of you stumbled back into your house, him kicking the door shut behind him. His hands roamed you fiercely, you felt like your whole body was on fire. He just wanted to feel you, to remember exactly how you felt under his hand. You tugged carefully at his hair, as he grabbed your thighs. He hoisted you up and you wrapped your legs around his waist. This kiss broke into a hug as you two stood in the middle of your house. He held you so tightly you could barely breathe, or maybe that was the adrenaline wearing off. Wordlessly he carried you to your couch, sitting down with you in his lap. The two of you sat there, holding onto the other, scared that if you let go the other would disappear.

Tears flowed freely down your face as you finally pulled back. "You got my message?"

He nodded, wiping away the tears from your cheek. "I did. I'm so sorry. Baby, I'm so sorry. For everything. For leaving you when you needed me, for ignoring your calls, for my words at the hospital. I was a coward, and I thought running was the best option. But I realized soon after that I'm not really living if I'm not with you." His voice broke as he continued, eyes filled with shame and regret, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I never deserved you. And I know I don't deserve your love and forgiveness, but God I want it so bad. I want you back, I want back what we were. And hearing that song, I couldn't keep myself away anymore." He moved from the couch, kneeling in front of you. His large hands wrapped around your legs as he begged you for forgiveness.

You didn't know what to feel. This man had left you at the lowest point in your life, and now here he was years and years later. You really didn't know whether to smack him or kiss him again. You were hurt, God of course you were. But he was Michael, he was your Michael. The Michael that you had heard built a home for you. You sniffled, "Why didn't you call, try to fix things?"

"I figured you either hated me, or I had hurt you too much that I would mess up again. I thought we would both move on. I was selfish and couldn't live with the idea of you actually hating me. I didn't want to call and here you tell me to leave you alone, I didn't want to call and hear the voice of another man. I thought I would die if I had actually thought you moved on." He looked up at you from his knees, eyes glossy.

The sight broke your heart. You knew you had every right to be furious, to turn him away. But that was a choice that your heart just wouldn't let you do. Instead, you cupped his face, "There's no moving on from you." Your forehead pressed against his.

The two of you sat there, breathing in the other. The room was filled with gentle breaths and repeated cires of guilt before Michael took your hands in his, "Come home with me. I have everything we wanted. The rides, the magic, the zipline and the pool."

You melted, "But Michael, I can't give you what you really want."

He shook his head, "Yes you can. There are plenty of children out there that deserve a loving home. That changes nothing about how I feel for you or for our future kids."

You brought his face back to yours, kissing him deeply.

"Let's go home."

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Years later, the two of you sat lazily at the large pool. There were children swimming about like crazy. You had 5 beautiful children, and one little angel baby. You had managed to have one biological child with Michael, and happily welcomed the sweet girl into the family.