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 had spent decades in the muted, lifeless confines of his small apartment, a place that had long forgotten the echo of laughter or the touch of sunlight. The city beyond thrived with the warmth of daylight and the vibrant hum of human lives, but for him, time stood still, bound by the weight of unchanging immortality. The air inside his walls was thick, suffocating, as if every breath of life had been stolen from it centuries ago. He navigated this solitude with the grace of a shadow, venturing outside only under the cover of night when the streets were bathed in the cold glow of streetlamps and the soft, silvery kiss of the moon.
His dark curls fell over a face that was both stunning and cursed, features carved with an almost statuesque precision, yet haunted-forever etched with the ghosts of lost eras and forgotten loves. His eyes, deep and dark as a midnight storm, held the stories of centuries. They were eyes that had witnessed empires rise and fall, eyes that saw through the fleeting nature of life with an indifference that bordered on melancholy. Every step he took, every gesture, carried a fluid, almost predatory elegance, a reminder of what he was-a being set apart from the mortal thrum, a creature whose existence defied nature itself. He moved with an eerie stillness; his chest never rose, never fell. It was a silence that spoke louder than any heartbeat, a constant whisper that he was forever trapped in this unnatural state.
Draped in dark, unremarkable clothes, he moved like a wraith among the living, blending seamlessly with the deep shadows that cradled him like an old, familiar embrace. His eyes, hollow yet glimmering with a suppressed hunger, scanned the dim alleyways, always searching, always resisting. The craving inside him was relentless, gnawing with an insidious edge-a need that animal blood could only dull, never truly satisfy. It was a deep, primal roar that throbbed through his veins, a tether that bound him not just to survival, but to the constant, excruciating brink of losing control.
He hadn't tasted human blood in over a millennium. The memory of that night was still seared into his mind, a scar that ached in the stillness. The last time, the final time, he had let his thirst rule him, it had ended in chaos-people closing in, shackles that bit into his wrists, the cold certainty that his end was near. Somehow, he had survived, but the choice was clear: to stop or face the true death. So he did, silencing that desperate part of himself to save the flickering remnant of his existence.
The nights bled into one another, a seamless tide of muted silences and self-inflicted isolation. Outside, the city pulsed and throbbed with life. The laughter of strangers rose and fell in a haunting chorus, mingling with whispers and the distant thrum of music-a concert of humanity, vibrant and careless, all of it blurred as though heard through layers of thick, suffocating glass. It was a song he no longer had a right to join, a reminder with each passing moment of what had been taken from him and what he had willingly surrendered. The voices of the living, however distant, chipped at the edges of his sanity, doing nothing to fill the hollowed-out echo within him where his heart should have beat.
