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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As we waited for our limo, the tension between Michael and me was almost suffocating. The cool night air nipped at my skin, but anxiety blazed hot through my veins, making me restless despite the breeze.
We stood side by side, our fingers intertwined, yet the connection felt fragile, like a thread stretched too thin, on the verge of snapping. The silence between us was heavy, growing thicker with each passing second. I could feel the weight of his mood pressing down on me, and the uncertainty gnawed at my nerves. I needed to know what was going on in his head—what he really thought about the scene we had just filmed.
Michael had been unusually quiet all evening. His typical easygoing charm was gone, replaced by a brooding intensity that set my teeth on edge. His grip on my hand was firm, almost too tight, but it was the kind of grip that felt more like restraint than comfort. Like he was holding onto me not out of love, but to anchor himself from whatever was boiling inside.
"Did you... did you like it?" I finally asked, breaking the silence that had settled between us like an unwelcome guest. My voice came out hesitant, barely above a whisper, but I couldn't help it. I was walking on eggshells, terrified of his response.
Michael's jaw clenched, the muscles in his face tightening as though he were trying to hold something back. He turned his head slightly, offering me a small, strained smile that did nothing to ease the knot in my stomach. His eyes—normally warm and full of light—were cold, distant. "We'll talk at home," he replied in a low voice, his words clipped, laced with an unmistakable edge of frustration. Anger.
My heart dropped, twisting with dread.
This is bad. Really bad.
Just then, the limo pulled up, its headlights cutting through the growing darkness. Without another word, we hurried inside, both of us making a pointed effort to avoid the lingering paparazzi outside the studio gates. Flashbulbs popped like fireworks, but I barely registered them. All I could focus on was the way Michael's hand tugged me along, the tension radiating off him in waves.
Once inside, the door clicked shut, and the oppressive silence returned. I could hear the soft hum of the engine as we pulled away, but it did nothing to fill the heavy void between us. We still held hands, but the gesture felt hollow, like we were going through the motions without any real connection. It was almost worse than if he had let go entirely.
I kept sneaking glances at him, my eyes searching for any sign of what was going on beneath that stony exterior. But his face was unreadable, his gaze fixed on the dark cityscape flashing by outside the window. He sat rigid, one elbow propped on the armrest, his other hand covering his mouth. It was like he was physically holding back whatever words were teetering on the edge of his tongue, trapping them behind the mask of calm he wore so well.
