I just think bout how much mutha fuckin nerve y’all got to actually put everyone through this not help them then destroy and threaten to destroy careers. The mutha fucking audacity but I guess that rule applies to us all.
My pet peeve is when people think just because they’re related to someone that that person is a good is a good person or can do no wrong just because you’re related to me doesn’t mean you can’t do no wrong or that you’re automatically this wonderful person. And a lot of y’all be having babies with people cause they’re beautiful when you could’ve had somebody else that you would’ve liked better. 👁️
Synopsis: When Michael's brothers laugh at his offering to play Twister, you agree to join him, much to his delight, but things take a bit of a turn when it somehow transforms into a game of Strip Twister.
Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader
Tags: Smut, Porn Without Plot, Stripping, Loss of Virginity, Teasing, Slight Slow Burn, Sub!Michael, Dom!Reader, Begging, Kissing, Dry Humping, Handjobs, Praise Kink, Titty Sucking, Penetrative Sex, Vaginal Sex, Cowgirl Position
Word Count: 5,250
A/N: Remember when I made a post saying that I was writing a twister smut a few days after the biopic came out and I said I was gonna upload it later that night? Yeah me neither cuz that was so fucking long ago.
I honestly considered scrapping this several times because it was so incredibly difficult to write for some reason but after spending hours making the colored dot dividers myself on canva (i kept fucking up the spacing and sizing of the circles), I figured there was no way in hell I was gonna let all that work go to waste so I forced myself to finish the fic lol. I'm glad I did end up finishing it tho cuz despite how terrible I thought it was while writing it, I'm actually pretty satisfied with how it turned out. Enjoy!
AO3 Link // Masterlist
The sun was beating down on you with a vigor you hadn't seen in weeks and your left arm was increasingly getting sore with each instance of you lifting it up to glance at your watch. You could've sworn that at least 5 minutes had passed since the last time you looked at it, so why the minute hand had only moved one spot, you couldn't understand. Stifling a yawn for the umpteenth time today, you watched the brothers play basketball in the driveway through heavy eyelids.
It wasn't the standard for you to be hanging out with them. Michael was the one who had been your best friend and go-to hang out buddy since the day him and his whole family first moved into the neighborhood. But nearly a decade later, you were yearning for something more...intimate, and although you didn't have a ton of concrete evidence to back it up, you were confident that the feeling was mutual. So when you rang the doorbell at Hayvenhurst earlier today and were told by Katherine that Michael was currently at the toy store with Bill, you begrudgingly accepted the brothers' offer to watch them play solely for the purpose of killing time before Michael came home.
The sound of the gate opening and a running engine gradually approaching roused you out of whatever sleep you were just about to fall into. You hopped off the hood of the red car that you were sitting on top of, anxious to finally to be released from the shackles of watching this game. Michael stepped out of the car and greeted all of you before excitedly making his way over to the trunk. Once Bill opened the trunk, Michael yanked a familiar game out of a big blue shopping bag.
"Guys look, I got Twister! You wanna play tonight?" Michael just barely finished his sentence before all the boys started laughing at him.
"Twister? Really?"
"What are we gonna do with Twister?"
The smile that made Michael's face radiate like the sun depleted ever so slightly. "Come on, it'll be like the old days," he countered.
"We'd love to, Mike, but I gotta be at home with the family, I can't be playing games," argued Jermaine before immediately reverting his attention back to the ball.
"And the rest of us are going out tonight."
"Yeah, Marlon's got a hot date."
Michael cradled the box in the nook of his arm, a subtle look of dejection lingering in his eyes. "Marlon, what time are you gonna be home? We can play then."
Before Marlon could respond, Tito answered for him. "Marlon's gonna be playing his own game of Twister tonight."
They all went back to laughing, and in a series of rather fortunate events, you swooped in to snatch your chance of getting what you came here for: some alone time with Michael.
"I'll play with you," you said, and the light came back to his eyes as quickly as it left.
"At least there's one person around here who knows how to have fun," Michael responded, speaking indirectly to his brothers. "Come on then, the faster we get to my room, the more time we have to play."
With haste, Michael bolted to the front door of the house as you chased after him, laughter from the both of you filling the air as you ran past.
Whether 30 minutes had passed or 3 hours, it was difficult to tell. You and Michael had played an unfathomable number of rounds, and that same yawn that you stifled earlier started haunting your throat again. Michael on the other hand still had enough energy to play until the cows came home.
"Let's play one more round," Michael said, mimicking his words from the past 5 rounds while smoothing out the mat.
You weren't sure if you'd be able to handle another round of the same dreary game. It's not that you wanted to stop playing, it's just that you wanted to spice things up a bit. Twister would've been a blast to play on its own for 50+ plus rounds back when you were in grade school, but you were an adult now which meant you had a different, and slightly more raunchy idea of fun.
Just as that thought passed through your head, a light bulb went off and a devious grin crept on your face. Oh yes. Not only would the brilliant idea that just popped into your head make for a much more interesting game, but it would lead you right to where you wanted to be with Michael. Right to where you've wanted to be with him for years now.
"Michael, why don't we switch it up a bit? Play a different version of Twister than the one we've been playing this whole time?"
"A different version? Like what?"
"Strip Twister."
His head shot up. You could tell he was physically trying to restrain his eyes from popping out of his head. "Strip Twister?"
"Yeah, I learned how to play it from an old friend at summer camp several years ago. You play the game like how you normally would, but every time someone falls, that person has to remove an article of clothing and the game doesn't end until one of us is naked."
Michael chuckled uneasily. "I don't know if it's a good idea to play that version."
"Why not?" you asked in feigned oblivion.
"Because one of us is gonna end up seeing the other naked!" Michael exclaimed, though his tone of voice and body language didn't really express the same level of opposition as the words coming out of his mouth.
"Oh please, I took sex ed in school, I know what boys look like down there. Besides, we're not strangers. It's not that much different from seeing each other in our bathing suits."
Michael's face was unreadable. Worried that you had overstepped a boundary, your brain scrambled to find a way to go back in time 30 seconds and never mention the Strip Twister, but what Michael said next nearly made your own eyes pop out of your head.
"50 bucks says I'm the last one clothed by the end."
The same devious grin from earlier revisited your face, and you both shook hands to seal the deal; the last instance of purely platonic physical contact that you two would engage in for the rest of the day.
At the end of round 1, your socks were sacrificed. At the end of round 2, it was Michael's turn to sacrifice his socks. The finale of round 3 constituted the removal of Michael's plain white t-shirt, but round 4 was where you had to give up your Jordache jeans. After Michael's arms gave out on him in round 5, you teased him with a wolf-whistle as he discarded his black sweats, revealing the Mickey Mouse boxers he was wearing underneath. You nearly broke the skin on your bottom lip biting down on it to suppress your laughter. Round 6 was a close game, but your halter top was the next article of clothing that ended up on the floor at the end of that round.
Now in nothing but your second skins, the stakes were at an all time high. Michael was determined to be the last man standing (or clothed in this case) but you needed him to lose this next round to carry out your master plan as intended.
Michael was virtually heaving at this point and sounded breathless every time he spoke. You were shocked that he hadn't gotten a boner yet, especially considering the way he couldn't take his eyes off of your body. He spun the wheel right next to him. "Alright, right hand red."
Bullseye. There was no better body part/color combination that the arrow could've landed on, because with just one convenient placement of your right hand on the red dot all the way to the far edge of the mat, you were now promoted to hovering on top of Michael. The cloth prison that your breasts were still confined in left little to the imagination as your nipples prodded through the thin fabric in perfect line with Michael's gaze. His breath was hot on your cleavage and you could hear just the faintest bit of shakiness in it. And it wasn't long after you got into the new position that you felt something lightly press up against your underwear with more and more force by the second. It was as if whatever the mystery object was that was pressing up against your core was growing. The tiniest gasp escaped from Michael's mouth and he lowered his body as close to the ground as he could without actually touching it. There it was. You now wished you could go back to the crab-walk stance to see the mountain growing in his boxers in real time.
You leaned forward to be able to reach the arrow on the wheel and determine Michael's fate. He had turned his head to the side out of politeness when he saw you reach forward, but his willpower to remain gentlemanly was subpar at best because you clocked several instances of him glancing back at your breasts in the 5 seconds it took for the arrow to land on left foot red.
A Robin Hood Bullseye. Michael's left foot was all the way on the green dot farthest to the edge of the mat in line with where your right hand was. There was no way he would be able to get it all the way over to red without losing his balance and falling, especially with you on top of him limiting the amount of space he had for his leg to move.
He looked up at you with pleading eyes once he realized how rigorous this feat would be to accomplish, but he was only met with a witty smirk in return.
After a great deal of stalling, Michael revved himself up to hoist his left foot off of the green spot and plant it onto the red spot directly next to the one your right hand was on, but his strategy was foiled when his foot got stuck to the mat and caused him to collapse dramatically underneath you.
You cheered in victory, lifting yourself off of him to jump in the air and chant your triumph as he lay in the same position he fell in, his arms crossed weakly on top of his torso and his head rolled back in laughter. As much as he hated losing a game to you, he loved watching you put on a show every time you won. Once you finished rubbing your victory in his face, you plopped down right next to him and Michael briskly lifted his left knee up to hide the front of his boxers.
You rubbed his arms up and down, gently squeezing his lean biceps. "The $50 you can give me later, but Mickey Mouse is gonna have to say goodbye right now." You transitioned your hands from his biceps to the waistband of his underwear, and even through his deep brown skin, you could see the faintest hint of red looming on his cheeks before he covered his face with his hands and playfully tried to kick you away.
"No! Please!" he begged through a fit of giggles. "C'mon, let's do best out of 3."
"It doesn't work like that, applehead."
Michael carried on with his laughing fit for some time while you continued to toy with his waistband. At this point, he was fighting back less and less with each graze of your hand past his navel. In fact, he wasn't really putting much effort into hiding his erection anymore either. His legs now lay completely relaxed and flat on the floor, giving you a full view of the outline of his thick cock laying off to one side and protruding through the fabric, begging for some form of escape.
Curious as to whether he was no longer hiding his growing appendage on purpose or if he simply forgot it was there, you tugged his boxers down the slightest bit, just enough to see where the dark curls of his pubic hair began. He didn't stop you. He simply shuddered as another row of muffled giggles came out of his mouth. When he finally removed his hands from his face, he gazed up at you with a glimmer in his eyes that was anything but platonic.
"You're not stopping me," you pointed out.
Michael shook his head, looking as though he just got hit with Cupid's arrow.
You crossed your arms and sat back on your heels. "You figured out the reason why I suggested Strip Twister in the first place, didn't you?"
Michael nodded.
"So then you know where this is heading?"
He nodded once more.
"And you want me to continue?"
"Please," he squeaked, struggling to quell a smile that almost touched his eyes.
"Well," you swung a leg over to sit on top of him and bent down until his face was a blur in your eyes, "since you asked so nicely."
The gasp that emerged from Michael's mouth as you seated yourself directly on top of his aching bulge was briskly silenced by the delicate kiss you planted on his lips. You pulled back after the first initial peck to catch his reaction, and you were pleasantly surprised to see him lift his head up off the ground in a desperate attempt to meet your lips again.
Your hand found its way to the back of his head, cradling his curls, dampened by preliminary sweat, as you brought your lips to his once more. You lingered there for a little while longer this time, making sure to savor his taste. You hadn't realized just how starving you were for him until now, and neither did he. His hands maneuvered to your back to hold onto you, pulling you in until your bodies were pressing against each other. As your lips fought to consume one another, you grabbed hold of his hands and guided them to the hook of your bra. With a swift unclasp, the bra slid right off and down your arms before being thrown onto the pile with the rest of the discarded clothes.
A mini sigh of relief fell from your lips and trickled into Michael's mouth. Your breasts lay freely on his chest and your hearts synced together, thumping at a rapid pace as the dizziness in your heads made you both feel like your brains were being carried by ocean waves. Was this actually happening? Or did you fall asleep while watching the brothers play basketball and you were just dreaming right now? You would've pinched yourself to know for sure, but you much preferred the feeling of Michael's fingers desperately gripping your thighs as opposed to your own.
As much as Michael's sickly sweet lips satisfied your craving orally, your core still remained starved for the delicacy that lay between his legs. Lightly, your hips began to rock back and forth on his clothed member. Michael whimpered, his legs wriggling beneath you and his hands dancing in a mixture of balling themselves into fists and retracting.
The slickness from your cunt began to coat the entire bottom of your panties, making the part of Michael's boxers that his shaft hugged so tightly sopping wet as well. For whatever part of his boxers wasn't soaked from your juices, the precum oozing out of him finished the job.
What started as a gentle back-and-forth motion eventually turned into aggressive grinding. These damn panties and boxers were in your way, barricading you from the real thing, and no matter how hard you rubbed yourself on Michael, it wasn't enough. He must've felt the same way, because while you were both still tongue-deep in each other's mouths, you felt his fingers tuck themselves into the sides of your panties, signaling to you that he wanted you to take them off.
You lifted yourself up, met with a whiny protest from Michael, and bit your lip as you smiled pompously. "I'm sorry, was I the one that lost Twister?" you asked him.
He shook his head, his eyes stark on your tits.
"That's right. You were the one that lost, which means these have to come off first," you said, playfully tugging at his boxers.
You teased him for what was realistically about 2 minutes, but to him, it felt like hours. You snaked your hands underneath the boxers to squeeze and knead his trembling thighs before migrating them over to his cock, which was still fully clothed, giving him a lazy hand job that made him squirm and writhe defenselessly.
"Please… Just take it off… I can't… I need… Mmph."
You giggled, butterflies going haywire in the pit of your stomach. You had never seen him act like this before, so needy and entirely helpless at your disposal. You would've teased him for even longer just to see how much he could handle before he cracked, but at this point, your legs were starting to quiver as well, and you had become so wet that you could physically feel the fluid dripping out of your pussy in real time.
"As you wish," you gladly stated, and with one sturdy pull, his boxers were dragged down from his hips and off of his legs.
Michael sighed in relief as his dick sprang free, slapping his stomach and leaving a thin string of precum connecting his glistening tip to the spot that it hit before standing fully upright.
You swallowed your breath. They say that the camera adds 10 lbs. Well, it must've been the case that Mickey Mouse boxers subtract 10 lbs, because the silhouette of his dick in his underwear could not even begin to compare to how big it looked when it was wild and free.
Slightly curved towards himself with speckles of lighter skin all around and a broad vein running down the shaft, you guesstimated that his dick must've been at the very least 7 and a half inches, maybe even 8. You became a bit nervous. You weren't a virgin, unlike Michael, but none of the other guys you had been with in the past were even remotely close in size to him. Was all that going to fit inside of you? There was only one way to find out, and God, you couldn't wait to find out the answer.
In a tantalizing manner, you grabbed hold of his hands and tucked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, silently giving him permission to do what he wanted to do 3 minutes ago. With shaky hands, he carefully slid your underwear off of you, his hands gliding down your thighs before you briskly passed your feet through the holes and threw them onto the pile, topping it off like the star on a Christmas tree.
Eager for the main event with your slickness now crawling down onto your inner thighs, you pounced on top of Michael, grabbing hold of his face and planting your lips onto his once more. As your tongues danced with each other and his hands went back to caressing your body, focusing on the parts that weren't accessible to him until now, yours slithered down, gliding past his throat where you could feel his heart beating inside of it, past his chest covered in a thick sheen of perspiration, past his stomach where you traced the lines that made up his delicate abs, and past the mound of curly black pubic hair until they wrapped around his pulsating cock.
Michael expelled a drawn-out mewl as you stroked him thoroughly, starting at the very bottom of the base and pushing up until his foreskin swallowed the tip before you glided your hand back down and the glistening head bloomed once more. The squelching noises accompanied by Michael's kitten-like whimpers were music to your ears.
"Please, please," he begged as you continued to fondle him, rotating your hands as you went up and down to ensure that no part of his dick was left unstroked, "I just wanna be inside you already, please…"
You fought hard to suppress a shudder, having almost came right then and there from hearing him say that. You had spent this whole time having a ball teasing Michael to the point of madness that you hadn't realized just how close you were to your own tipping point until he said those magic words in that delectably high-pitched voice of his. It was in that moment that you released your hands from his cock and pulled him up so that he was sitting upright, leaning against the edge of his bed as opposed to laying flat on the floor like he had been this whole time. You needed to be face to face with him for this moment.
You maneuvered yourself to hover over his cock, wrapping your arms around his neck and touching your foreheads together as he gripped and kneaded your ass with desperation. It almost felt like he was trying to push your hips down. You took the hint and finally lowered yourself onto him at long last. As his lubed tip began to pierce through your hole, shockwaves of pleasure emanated through the both of you, starting at the base of your groins and dispersing all throughout your bodies until you could feel the tingles passing through each follicle of hair on your scalp. Michael's head rolled back as a moan of intense relief escaped from his throat, and your mouth hung open as you felt his member stretch your ribbed walls inch by inch.
Your thighs trembled like mad trying their absolute hardest to hold your weight as you slowly drew yourself down. 1 inch, 2 inches, 3 inches, 4 inches. It burned so good. You viciously sucked on his neck trying to distract yourself from the pain, knowing that pure bliss was coming soon, and the vibrations that his moans set off on your teeth helped open your cunt to let him in deeper. 5 inches, 6 inches, 7 inches…
Soon your pussy swallowed all 8 inches of him and your trembling thighs were finally rewarded with resting on top of his as you both let out a low-drawn groan in unison. You stayed there for a little while, wanting to relish in the feeling of his dick being hugged tightly by the slick walls of your cunt.
"God, you're so big, it's making me so full," you whispered breathlessly against the skin of his neck. "You want me to start moving up and down?"
An incomprehensible noise emitted from Michael's throat as he furiously nodded his head, a couple beads of sweat shaking off of his curls as a result.
"I need an audible answer, baby."
"Hmmph," he said, digging his fingers into your hips in an attempt to try and lift you up.
Dissatisfied with him not listening to you, you snatched his wrists and yanked them up so that his hands hung above his head. He looked at you with a feeble pout, his eyes beginning to turn glossy from the tears of desperation that were burning in the back of his skull.
"You are gonna answer me with a verbal 'yes' or 'no' like a good boy or I'm gonna put my clothes back on and walk out of here right now." You were bluffing, of course. You wouldn't dream of walking out of the room during a moment as beautiful as this, but Michael didn't need to know that. "One more time, do you want me to start moving up and down?"
"Y-yes please. Please just move, hmph, I've been waiting forever for this, just please do it already~"
"I've been waiting forever for this." There it was. The proof you needed that the feelings you had for Michael for years now were indeed mutual. And no amount of "please's" or magic words were as effective in giving Michael what he wanted as that sweet phrase that you yourself had waited forever for.
"As you wish," you repeated yourself from earlier.
Fighting through the ache in your thighs, you lifted yourself all the way up until nothing but the very top of his tip was still inside of you and slammed yourself back down, both of your thighs creating a deafening clap on impact.
A stunned wail erupted from Michael's throat at the initial drop. He clung to you as if a gust of wind was enough to drag you away from him, burying his head into the crevice of your shoulder. You could feel the warm tears leaking out of his eyes and onto your collarbone as you maintained the same pattern of stroking his cock with your pussy from tip to base.
"Ooh, ah, ah, it feels so good... You feel so good~" Michael's voice wobbled with every bounce you did. After several strokes, you had finally gotten used to his size and could pick up the pace, bouncing so fast that Michael could no longer keep his head buried in your shoulder. You lifted him up by his curls and giggled at his face. The face of a man who was in shambles at this very moment in time. The face of a man who didn't have an ounce of control over anything and liked it like that. The face of a man who would do whatever you wanted right now, so long as you kept riding him.
His tear-stained eyes couldn't pull themselves away from your breasts jiggling to the rhythm. You were just about to start getting close, you could feel it, but you needed an extra push.
"Michael, baby," you cooed, "d'you wanna be a good boy and suck on my titties for me?"
No verbal response yet again. Instead, he answered by grabbing your right breast and enveloping his lips around your areola, visibly trying to shove as much of your tit into his mouth as he could. You moaned in surprise pleasure, enraptured to see him so eager to fulfill your request without second thought.
You continued riding him at a steady pace, both of your juices blending to form an off-white elixir that presented itself as a ring around the base of Michael's cock where you landed with each recoil. Your hands gripped and kneaded his curls, forming knots in his hair that he could care less about as his tongue swirled in circles and figure eights around your erected nipples. He sucked and slurped your breasts like it was his last meal, his toes curling as you pounded down onto him repeatedly.
It was when he began to lightly tug at your nipples with his teeth that you could start to feel it. That fire kindling deep within the pit of your stomach that gave you the warning. Hastily, you shoved Michael's face deeper into your chest, not wanting him to stray even a centimeter away from where he was, and he obliged with pleasure as you thrusted yourself all the way down onto his member and started to vigorously grind your throbbing clit on top of his pubic mound.
The friction from Michael's course pubic hair against your clit sent you into a frenzy as you felt the sensation of fireworks going off inside of you. Your hips stuttered against his as your diaphragm squeezed itself against your will to fill the room with your boisterous moans. Your nails dug into his scalp and your eyes rolled back until you could see nothing but the unidentifiable color of your eyelids. As you bucked your hips, riding out the last bit of your euphoria, your thighs squelched as all of the juices that expelled from your pussy found its way past the barrier that Michael's rock hard dick planted inside of you and spilled out of you and all over him, leaving itself as a glimmering puddle on his lap.
Your grinding slowed as the aftershocks of your cunt pulsing every few seconds like a heartbeat squeezed Michael's cock, but he frantically urged you not to stop now as his high was nearing.
"No, no, no, please, I've been a good boy, please don't stop now, I feel it coming~"
Suddenly regaining all of your energy, you went back to riding him in full force, pulling him away from your breasts and into your line of view so that you could watch his climax in all its glory.
"Yes, you've been such a good boy," you assured him, knowing full well that the floodgates would burst open the more you praised him. "You'll be the best boy in the world if you cum inside of me, baby. Don't be afraid, just let it all out."
"Uuuuughhh, mmmmph~" His eyes squeezed shut in concentration and his hips started to buck against yours, causing you to fall out of rhythm for a few seconds before you both found the right beat, your thighs pounding against each other with resounding claps before Michael's breathing hitched, his back arched, and he latched onto you.
"Ohh, ahh, I'm cumming, oh my God, I'm cumming!" he cried out. Your name fell mercilessly from his lips as thick ropes of warm cum spurted out of him and splattered onto the rigid walls of your pussy. Your cunt dragged his creamy liquid up and down his shaft, coating his entire dick as you still continued to ride him while he was finishing, doing your best to milk him dry. Loud wailing moans soon turned into mewling whines as the last bit of cum weakly dribbled out of Michael's fully pumped cock and you slowed down in time to feel him pulse inside of you before shrinking back down to his flaccid size.
None of you said anything for a while as you both caught your breaths and tried to register what just happened. Michael's head rested on your shoulder and you rubbed his back while murmuring praises in his ear about what a good job he did. Although when you did so, you could've sworn you felt one last gush of cum expel out of him as he jolted ever so slightly in your arms.
"Do you feel better?" you asked him. He lifted himself off of your shoulder, nodding his head and gulping heavily as if attempting to swallow a tablespoon of peanut butter before reaching over to his wallet, which had been resting on the ottoman pressed up against the bed this whole time, and pulling out a crisp $50 bill. You chuckled, having completely forgotten about that part of the deal before snatching the bill in between your index and middle finger like it was a cigarette and grabbing your jeans from the pile to tuck it into the pocket of.
"So, uh," Michael gulped once more, "what should we do now?" He was visibly love drunk, though you weren't sure if a cold shower would be enough to sober him up.
At this moment in time, you knew that it was in your guys' best interests to clean yourselves up and get dressed before anyone came in, but just for the sake of wanting to be funny, you had to ask:
couple you please write a fic where michael like forgets an anniversary cause of practice and we like give him the silent treatment for 2 days while he’s like yearning ?
7:00
synopsis — 𓍼ོ.☘︎ ݁˖༘⋆ : michael misses your third anniversary dinner and you wait alone at the restaurant. when he finds out, he’s overwhelmed with guilt and tries to fix what went wrong.
the reservation sat at the edge of the table. the warm light spilled across the table, two untouched glasses of water, napkins folded too neatly. the restaurant carried that mix of garlic and melted wax, soft music played somewhere overhead, blending into the low hum of conversation and the occasional clink of cutlery. everything around you kept moving forward.
your table didn’t.
every time the front door opened, you looked up too fast, every single time.
your heart jumped before you could stop it, sharp and hopeful, and then it sank just as quickly when it wasn’t him. strangers came and went, laughing, brushing snow off their coats, shaking off the cold, and each time your body betrayed you the same way. shoulders tightening, breath catching. that small, stupid flicker of hope you told yourself you wouldn’t let happen again. but it kept happening anyway. you kept looking for michael.
the waiter came by with a careful kind of politeness, hands folded behind his back.
“do you need a little more time?”
you nodded before he finished the sentence.
“yeah. just… a bit longer.”
he left you with two menus you hadn’t opened and a bouquet of white lilies sitting across from you like a reminder you didn’t want to read. your phone was face-down beside your plate. you turned it over anyway.
nothing. no missed calls. no new messages. your reflection stared back from the black screen, eyes a little too wide, expression held together by habit. your thumb hovered over his name. didn’t press. hovered again. you knew what would happen if you called.
you could already hear it—his voice on the other end, warm, rushed, apologetic.
“baby, i’m sorry—rehearsal ran over.”
or worse—
“just give me twenty minutes.”
twenty minutes that would stretch into an hour. then two. then nothing you could count anymore.
your throat tightened as you locked the phone again.
if he remembered, he would come. you didn’t want to be the one who had to make him remember.
7:30 p.m.
couples around you were finishing dessert, chairs scraping softly against the floor as people left one by one, their laughter fading into the distance. the restaurant slowly emptied itself out, like the night was moving on without asking if you were ready. your table stayed the same.
you checked your phone again. then again.
your thumb lingered over his contact longer this time, almost pressing—then pulling away at the last second. your breath wavered.
just call him.
just once.
but even as the thought came, you already knew how it would sound. you already knew the apology before it arrived. you already knew how easily it would soften you, how quickly you’d fold it back into hope again.
so you didn’t.
you put the phone down like it weighed too much to hold.
8:15 p.m.
the candle had burned low enough now that the flame looked uncertain. the restaurant had gone quiet in a different way—less busy, more final. like the end of something that had already happened.
the waiter returned, slower this time.
he didn’t ask if you needed more time.
he just looked at the table, then at you, with something softer in his expression.
“would you like me to box up the dessert?”
you frowned slightly. “dessert?”
a pause.
“your reservation noted it was an anniversary.”
the words didn’t feel loud, but they hit hard anyway.
for a moment, you couldn’t quite process them. your hands tightened around the edge of the table as if it could steady you. the candle hissed softly. somewhere behind you, someone laughed, and it felt too normal for the way your chest had just gone tight.
“oh,” you said finally.
small. flat. empty.
you reached across the table and picked up the lilies. they were colder than you expected, petals brushing against your wrist as you pulled them into your lap.
“thank you,” you said quietly, forcing something close to a smile. “sorry about all this.”
the waiter shook his head.
“no need to apologize.”
he hesitated, like he wanted to say more, then didn’t.
“i hope your night gets better.”
you nodded like that was something you could agree with.
outside, the air hit you harder than you expected.
the warmth of the restaurant disappeared instantly behind you, replaced by wind that cut through your coat and pulled at your hair. the street were alive in the way cities are at night. someone crossed the street holding hands, leaning into each other like it was the most natural thing in the world. no hesitation. no waiting. you looked down at the lilies in your arms. after a moment, you set them down on a nearby bench.
carefully.
like if you were gentle enough, it wouldn’t feel like leaving.
it was your third anniversary.
and he didn’t show.
the house was silent when michael walked through the front door just after midnight. his rehearsal bag slipped from his shoulder with a dull thud against the floor. he barely noticed, and his muscles ached from hours of dancing, his calves tight, his voice hoarse from singing through the same songs again and again.
despite the exhaustion written across his face, he couldn’t help smiling to himself.
today had been productive. they’d finally nailed the routine he’d been struggling with all week, and his director had actually nodded in approval instead of asking for one more take. the relief of that had carried him through the last hour of rehearsal, even when the studio lights had turned hot and blinding, even when sweat had soaked through the back of his shirt and his shoes had started to stick to the floor. the music was still ringing in his ears, the beat still lodged in his chest. absentmindedly, he hummed the melody as he kicked off his shoes near the door.
“mama?”
his voice echoed through the house.
“you awake?”
nothing.
he frowned. usually you’d answer immediately. even if it was just a sleepy “in here.” even if you were half buried under blankets or curled up on the couch with a book you’d long since stopped reading. usually there was some sign of you—soft footsteps, the glow of a lamp, the sound of your voice drifting from another room.
instead, silence.
michael wandered farther inside.
“you asleep already mama?”
still nothing. his eyes drifted toward the kitchen. then, they landed on the calendar hanging beside the refrigerator.
november 2nd, circled carefully in red ink. a tiny heart drawn beside it, our anniversary.
everything inside him stopped. the smile vanished, his stomach dropped, cold and sudden. his mouth went dry.
“no.”
the word came out broken. the house, warm a second ago, now felt airless. the candle scent in the room turned sour in his throat. slowly his gaze lowered, the reservation card. still sitting exactly where you’d left it that morning.
7:00 p.m.
your favorite restaurant.
he remembered you smiling while placing it on the counter before he’d rushed out the door. you’d been dressed for the day already, hair done, eyes bright, looking at him with that hopeful expression he knew so well.
“don’t work too hard today.”
you’d laughed when you said it, light and teasing, like you were trying to make the warning sound casual even though you both knew what tonight meant.
he’d kissed your forehead without thinking.
“i won’t.”
his knees nearly gave out. the card blurred for a second, then sharpened again, each printed line suddenly cruel in its simplicity. his chest tightened so hard it hurt to breathe.
“oh god…”
his whisper cracked. his breathing turned uneven as realization crashed over him all at once. you’d waited, you’d gotten dressed, you’d gone. alone.
while he’d been under bright rehearsal lights, counting steps and harmonies and cues, while he’d been laughing with the cast and chasing perfection and telling himself he’d check his phone after just one more run-through, you’d been sitting in a restaurant with flowers and candles and a table meant for two.
he dragged both hands down his face, fingers trembling.
the house suddenly felt too small, too quiet. his chest tightened painfully as he stared at the reservation card, at the neat handwriting.
he stared at the reservation card, at the red circle around the date, and the truth hit him with the force of a slammed door.
he left you alone on our anniversary, and somewhere in that restaurant the candle at your table had burned down to a trembling little stump beside the untouched dessert, lighting the empty chair where i should have been.
he checked the bedroom first, empty. the bathroom, empty.
“mama?”
his voice scraped through the apartment and came back thin and wrong, swallowed by the hush.
he pulled his phone from his pocket and called you. it rang once, then dropped into voicemail. he tried again. voicemail.
“…please.”
his eyes snagged on the front door. the space where your overnight bag usually sat was bare. so were your slippers, tucked nowhere by the wall, no soft scuff of them on the tile, no sign you’d only stepped out for a minute.
his chest tightened hard enough to hurt. you hadn’t gone for a walk, you’d left.
he braced himself against the kitchen counter, fingers slipping on the cool laminate, one trembling hand covering his mouth as he stared at the floor and tried to breathe through the panic clawing up his throat.
the house felt wrong the next morning. your coffee mug was still in the cabinet. your side of the bed was smooth and cold, untouched, the sheets pulled tight where no body had warmed them.
he kept looking toward the bedroom, every few seconds jerking his head up at the smallest sound, expecting to hear your footsteps, the familiar creak of the floorboards, your voice calling back to him.
instead, nothing.
rehearsal blurred at the edges. he missed counts, came in late on cues, forgot choreography he’d drilled into his muscles for weeks. sweat cooled on the back of his neck. his hands felt clumsy and unfamiliar, his stomach knotted so tightly he could barely swallow.
when it finally ended, he drove home too fast, knuckles white around the wheel, hope and dread twisting together in his chest until he could hardly tell them apart. he unlocked the front door with shaking fingers.
“mama?” silence.
his shoulders sagged all at once. he stood there for a long moment, listening to the refrigerator hum and the blood rush in his ears, before quietly setting his keys on the counter.
“i’m sorry.” the words fell flat and vanished into the empty apartment.
late on the second night, the scrape of keys in the lock dragged him out of sleep. he shot upright on the couch, heart slamming so hard it made him dizzy.
the front door opened slowly. you stepped inside with your overnight bag resting against your shoulder. for a second, he could only stare, frozen in place, his breath caught painfully in his chest. then his eyes burned. tears came fast, blurring you at the edges.
“mama…” his voice cracked open on the word.
“you came home.”
you stood there quietly, your arms folded loosely across your chest as you watched him. his eyes never left yours. they were red, swollen, and wet with tears that kept spilling no matter how hard he tried to blink them back.
“say something.”
his voice cracked on the words, barely louder than a breath.
“please.”
you didn’t. not right away.
the silence between you was unbearable. it pressed down on him until his breathing turned ragged and uneven. he looked down, dragging in a shaky breath before slowly sinking to his knees in front of you. not because he thought it would fix anything, but because he was desperate enough to try anything at all.
his hands were trembling so badly he could barely hold them still.
“i’m sorry,” he whispered, and then the words broke apart into a sob. “i’m so so so so sorry.”
his fingers reached for yours, then stopped halfway, hovering there as if he was afraid he didn’t deserve to touch you.
“please,” he choked out. “please let me hold your hands. please.” you didn’t answer.
after a moment, he lowered his head and let out a broken, shaking breath before gently taking your hands into his own. his grip was careful, almost reverent, like he was terrified you’d pull away and leave him with nothing.
“i love you.” he said, and the tears came harder now, sliding down his cheeks in helpless streams. “i love you so much.”
his thumb brushed over your knuckles, trembling. “and i ruined it.”
his voice cracked completely.
“i ruined our anniversary.”
the words seemed to tear out of him. he bowed his head, pressing your hands against his forehead as his shoulders started to shake.
“i know,” he whispered through another sob. “i know i hurt you. i know i made you wait. i know i made you feel forgotten on the one night that was supposed to be about us.”
his breath hitched violently.
“i hate myself for that.” another tear dropped onto your fingers.
“i hate that i made you cry. i hate that i made you sit there and wonder if i even cared enough to remember.”
his voice broke again, raw and pleading.
“i did remember. i did. and that’s what makes this worse, because i still let everything else come first and i still made you feel like you didn’t matter.”
he shook his head, crying openly now, the sound of it thin and wrecked.
“please forgive me.”
the words came out desperate, almost frantic.
“please. i’m begging you.”he lifted his head just enough to look at you, his face wet and ruined with tears, his eyes searching yours like he could find mercy there if he looked hard enough.
“i’ll do anything,” he said, his voice trembling so badly it nearly fell apart. “i’ll cancel every meeting, leave rehearsals early, set alarms, write it on every wall in this house if i have to. i’ll never let another date slip past me again. i swear to you, i won’t.”
he let out a broken laugh that turned into another sob.
“i don’t care how pathetic i sound.”
his grip tightened around your hands, not enough to hurt, only enough to hold on.
“i just can’t stand knowing i made you feel like you came second on our anniversary.”
his face crumpled.
“you never do,” he whispered fiercely. “you never have. you never will.”
he bent forward again, pressing your hands to his forehead as his whole body shook with quiet, helpless sobs.
“please don’t shut me out,” he begged. “please don’t make me lose you over this. i can’t—” his voice broke, and he swallowed hard, trying again through tears. “i can’t bear the thought that i made you feel unloved on a day that was supposed to prove the opposite.”
he was crying openly now, shoulders trembling, breath stuttering between each broken apology.
“please.” he whispered again, smaller this time, like the word itself was all he had left. “please forgive me.”
you stared at him for what felt like forever. at the way his hands shook around yours, at the tears he wasn’t even trying to hide anymore, at the guilt carved into every line of his face.
slowly, you slipped one hand free. for a second, his expression shattered completely, and he looked like he might fall apart right there on the floor. his fingers loosened at once, convinced you were pulling away for good.
instead, your hand found his cheek. your thumb brushed away one of the tears sliding down his skin.
“look at me.”
he obeyed instantly, lifting his face with a shaky breath.
“i was hurt.” you said softly.
his eyes squeezed shut for a moment, and another tear slipped free.
“i know.” he whispered. “i know. i’m sorry. i’m so sorry.” your own eyes glistened. “not because you forgot a date.” his face twisted with fresh guilt.
“because for one night…”
you swallowed, then met his gaze again.
“i felt like i wasn’t the first person on your mind.”
his mouth trembled. he looked like he might cry harder at the sound of your voice alone.
“you were,” he said immediately, broken and frantic. “you are. you always are. i just—i failed you. i failed us. i failed our anniversary and i failed you.”
another sob tore through him.
“please believe me when i say i never meant to make you feel small.”
you held his gaze for a long moment, then you nodded once.
“i believe you’re sorry.”
he blinked, stunned, tears still clinging to his lashes. relief hit him so hard it looked almost painful. another tear slipped down his cheek, but this one carried something softer with it.
“but if this ever happens again…” the faintest hint of a smile touched your lips.
“i’m making you plan the entire anniversary alone.”
for a second, he just stared at you, still crying, still trying to catch his breath. then a shaky laugh escaped him through the tears.
“that’s fair.” he whispered, then he nodded quickly, almost frantically.
“that’s more than fair.”
you exhaled softly.
“come here.” he hesitated, eyes searching yours one last time.
“are you sure?”
instead of answering, you opened your arms. that was all it took. he moved into you immediately, wrapping his arms around you with heartbreaking care, holding you like he was afraid you might disappear if he breathed too hard. his face buried itself in the crook of your neck, and the tears he’d been holding back finally came all at once, hot and shaking against your skin.
“thank you,” he whispered, voice muffled and wrecked. “thank you for forgiving me. thank you for not giving up on me.”
you rested your hand against the back of his head, smoothing his hair gently.
“don’t waste it.”
he shook his head against you at once.
“i won’t.”
his arms tightened around you just a little more.
for the first time in two days, the house no longer felt unbearably quiet. it felt warm again, filled with the sound of his breathing against your shoulder and the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm, like the lights had finally come back on after a long lonely night.
I don’t know if it’s my place to check people who beat thier wives or children. And maybe that’s the problem people don’t feel it’s thier place if communities got involved maybe there would be less pain in our women and children.
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