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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The silence between them stretched into the depths of the night, a thick, suffocating veil that threatened to choke them both. The crackle of the fire, now dim and struggling for life, offered the only sound, a fragile whisper against the heavy quiet. Michael's gaze, sharp as a hawk's in brighter moments, drifted, unfocused and haunted. Each sip of tea tasted bitter, doing little to soothe the tightening knot in his chest. The shadows flickered against the cabin walls, morphing into echoes of the past he could never quite bury—blood seeping like ink across the wooden boards of his front porch, the sharp crack of a rifle, and the raw, searing pain of a bullet tearing through flesh. The ache in his side throbbed with the ghost of that night, the scar a permanent reminder that survival was never without cost.
He blinked and brought himself back to the present, his eyes finding Yn where she sat by the worn table. Dark bruises, purple and blue like storm clouds, marred her skin. She hugged herself as if trying to ward off the cold that even the fire could not chase away. A shiver rippled through her, making her bit down on her lip to hold back a tremble. When their eyes met for the briefest of moments, he saw the storm within her—fear, raw and aching, sparring with a thread of defiance that refused to be extinguished.
Michael exhaled slowly, setting down his tea on the small nightstand beside him. His fingers flexed around the smooth metal of the shotgun resting across his lap, thumb brushing over the familiar etchings that had seen him through countless battles and sleepless nights.
Yn's body tense with fear as her eyes darted to the shotgun resting on his lap. His grip on it was loose but deliberate, a silent warning that sent chills down her spine. She tried to focus on the crackling fire in the corner of the room, its warmth doing little to ease the cold knot of anxiety in her chest. Michael's face was shadowed, unreadable, his gaze fixed on the floor as if lost in a storm of his own thoughts.
She fought to stay awake, her pulse racing every time his fingers brushed against the weapon. But the weight of the day pressed down on her like a heavy blanket, each blink dragging her closer to the edge of unconsciousness. Her breathing slowed, the fear dimming just enough to let exhaustion claim her. She folded her arms on the table and laid her head down, eyes fluttering shut. Sleep came reluctantly, like a thief slipping through the cracks.
Michael barely moved, his jaw tight as he watched her surrender to the silence. The firelight flickered across her face, softening the lines of worry etched there. His fingers brushed the cold metal of the shotgun, the weight of it grounding him even as his thoughts churned. Hours passed in this uneasy stillness, the world outside the cabin seeming distant and unreal.
