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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Michael walked down the dimly lit corridor, the harsh fluorescent lights flickering overhead, casting eerie shadows on the concrete walls. The heavy scent of bleach and sweat clung to the air, a constant reminder of the sterile yet suffocating environment. Dressed in faded denim button-up shirt and jeans, Michael's black, straight hair, cropped close to his scalp, added to his hardened appearance. His every step echoed ominously, a stark reminder of the confined world he was trapped in. The coarse fabric of his prison-issued shoes scuffed against the cold floor as he made his way toward the phone line, his expression unreadable, yet his eyes betraying a deep, simmering anger.
As he neared the line of inmates waiting for their turn at the phones, his eyes caught sight of a burly inmate leaning against the wall, eyeing him with an unsettling grin. The man's gaze was anything but friendly; it was the kind of look that made it clear he was sizing Michael up, possibly as a potential target or worse. Michael, however, wasn't interested in becoming anyone's bitch, not today, not ever. He met the man's gaze with an icy stare, his jaw clenched in silent defiance. The inmate's smile faltered, and with a roll of his eyes, Michael dismissed the encounter, continuing on his way.
He had more pressing matters to deal with.
The line moved slowly, each passing second increasing the tension in his chest. His thoughts briefly drifted to Yn, who he knew was working tirelessly on his behalf. He could picture her now, hunched over paperwork in his cramped office, dark circles under her eyes from the endless hours she had put in since his arrest. She was struggling to stay awake, he knew it, but she wouldn't let herself stop. Not until he was free.
Finally, it was his turn. Michael stepped up to the phone, the cool metal of the receiver a sharp contrast to the warmth of his hand. He dialed the familiar number with practiced ease, the anticipation of hearing Yn's voice propelling him forward. The dial tone buzzed in his ear before the line connected, and he could almost hear the exhaustion in Yn's sigh as she picked up on the other end.
"Hello?" Yn's voice was soft, weary, but still filled with the determination that Michael had come to rely on.
Michael allowed a small, wry smile to tug at the corner of his mouth. "Hey honey," he greeted, his tone light, though the gravity of their situation hung heavily in the air between them.
"Oh hey, boss," Yn replied, matching his casual tone. They had rehearsed this, perfected the code over countless conversations. In a world where walls had ears, subtlety was their only safeguard.
"How's work? No one's giving my wife a hard time, right?" Michael asked, his words carrying a double meaning that Yn understood all too well. He was asking about the casino, about the operations that were the lifeblood of their escape plan.
