Welcome to Michael Jackson Imagines Vol. 3!
This is a book full of erotica and different AUs of Michael Jackson.
I hope you brought your holy beverage or food, you're probably gonna need A LOT.
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Hours passed, and the silence between us felt like a heavy weight, pressing down on the room. Neither of us had spoken a word since the argument, and the air between us felt thick, almost suffocating. I wasn't sure if Michael was still upset or if he just didn't want to talk to me. The quiet was gnawing at me, the unspoken words hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break. I love that man... well, woman. But sometimes, he really gets on my nerves.
We lay in bed, our bodies stiff, both of us pretending to sleep but failing miserably.
Michael had his back turned to me, facing the window, his silhouette barely illuminated by the faint glow of the streetlight filtering through the curtains. I was on my back, staring up at the ceiling, tracing the patterns of shadows that danced across it. I sighed softly, trying to push the thoughts of our argument out of my mind, but they kept creeping back in, relentless and unforgiving.
I was proud of myself for standing up to him, for not letting him walk all over me this time, but the guilt gnawed at me like a persistent itch I couldn't scratch. His reaction had been so hurt, so raw, that it made me second-guess everything. Why should I feel guilty? He's been giving me shit for the past two weeks, and I was the one who finally snapped. Yet here I was, feeling like the bad guy.
I shifted slightly, slowly tucking my hands behind my head, trying not to disturb Michael, though it seemed he was still awake. I could hear his breathing, steady but shallow, as if he were holding something back. Without warning, he flipped over to face me, his movement sudden and almost startling.
"Can't sleep?" he asked, his voice soft but tinged with exhaustion, the rough edges of our earlier argument still present.
I kept my gaze fixed on the ceiling, though I could feel his eyes on me, searching for something. "Uh-huh," I hummed, noncommittal, my voice betraying the frustration I was trying to hide.
"Somethin' bothering you?" he asked, his tone tentative, as if he were afraid of my answer.
"Uh-huh," I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper, not ready to dive into it, not ready to peel back the layers of our argument just yet.
He hesitated, the pause between us growing longer, then finally asked, "Wanna talk about it?"
I couldn't help but scoff, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "Now you wanna talk? Feels a little late for that, don't you think?"
I heard Michael sigh, a sound that carried more sadness than frustration. It was a sound that tugged at my heart, made me feel a pang of regret. He started to turn away again, as if retreating from the conversation, from me, and guilt immediately gripped me. I turned my head toward him, propping myself up on my elbows, the need to fix this, to fix us, overwhelming me.
