Book I Of the 'Not Vanilla' Imagine Series.
𝚃𝚆: includes strong language, Sexual content, Explicit content.
Readers discretion is Advised
Imagines Between you & Michael Jackson.
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♡ 1987 Chicago Word Count: 10k
The streetlights cast a harsh, almost unforgiving glow on the cracked sidewalks of Chicago, a city teeming with a diverse array of crimes. Men roamed the streets, their hands brushing against the concealed guns in their pockets, their faces a mix of bravado and desperation. These men carried not just weapons but the tattered remnants of pride, clinging to an identity shaped by survival and street loyalty.
The air was thick with the sound of catcalls, as self-proclaimed gangsters shouted at passing women, their voices a blend of arrogance and need. They tried too hard, their words stumbling over themselves in a futile attempt to catch a woman's interest. The women, however, passed them by without a glance, their expressions a mix of annoyance and pity. The smell of cigarettes and marijuana lingered in the air, mingling with the scent of sweat and asphalt. The men's breaths reeked of these substances, their teeth stained yellow or missing altogether, exposing decayed gums.
In the shadows of a dimly lit alleyway, Michael stood apart from the chaos, leaning against the graffiti-covered wall. His eyes, sharp and observant, tracked the movements of the men and women on the street. Unlike the others, Michael had an air of quiet confidence. Yet, he was still ensnared in the wrong crowd, deeply involved in street gangs and the violence that came with them. He had seen and done things that he never spoke of, not even to you.
Despite the silence that had grown between you two after your breakup a few months ago, Michael continued to protect you from afar. He kept you safe without you ever knowing, his actions hidden beneath a cloak of secrecy. His presence in the alley was a silent vigil, a reminder of a world you were better off away from, even as he remained ensnared within it.
"Oooh, look at foxy," one of the men called out, his voice leering as his eyes followed you. He was balding in the middle, with only patches of dark, curly hair clinging to his scalp.
"That mama is fine," another man chimed in, adjusting his oversized sunglasses despite the absence of sunlight, his grin spreading across a face marked by years of hard living.
You walked past them, your knee-high black boots clicking sharply against the cracked pavement. The sound echoed in the night, a confident rhythm that caught their attention.
"Aye mama, lemme holla at you real quick," the man with the sunglasses said, his tone dripping with entitlement.
You rolled your eyes, arms crossing defensively over your chest as your bangles jingled together. You quickened your pace, hoping to leave their crude remarks behind.
"Bitch, I said let me holla at you!" he barked, his voice now tinged with aggression.
You froze, the word cutting through the night like a knife. Slowly, you turned on your heel and marched back towards him, your eyes blazing with fury. "What did you call me?" you demanded, your voice low and dangerous.
