Book II Of the 'Not Vanilla' Imagine Series
𝚃𝚆: includes strong language, Sexual content, Explicit content.
Readers discretion is Advised
Imagines Between you & Michael Jackson.
Request are optional, send them to @/mjswhisperer on Twitter.
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☾ 1984 Encino Word Count: 9.6k
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The evening was thick with stillness, the kind that settles deep in your bones and makes the world feel miles away. Outside, the sky was a velvety black, peppered with stars that twinkled faintly above the quiet neighborhood. A crescent moon hung low, casting a soft glow through the nursery window, its silver light filtering through the sheer curtains and spilling gently across the floor. The entire room seemed bathed in a serene, almost magical light, as if the moon itself was watching over you and your baby girl.
In your arms, she was a bundle of warmth and softness, her tiny body tucked snugly against your chest. Her skin had the unmistakable softness of a newborn, still carrying that faint, sweet scent of baby powder mixed with lavender from her evening bath. Even now, at three months old, she still held that newness, that purity that took your breath away. Her cheeks, round and rosy, were as soft as silk, and her little lips, parted ever so slightly, moved in tiny, instinctive motions as if she were still feeding in her dreams.
Her hands, impossibly small, rested against your chest, her fingers curled in delicate fists. You could already see the hints of her growing personality—sometimes she clenched her hands tightly, and at other times they relaxed, fingers splayed out as if reaching for something in her sleep. Her hair, dark and glossy with soft curls, framed her tiny face, so reminiscent of her father's. And those eyes—those deep, soulful brown eyes—reminded you of Michael every time they blinked open. Even when closed, her long lashes brushed her cheeks, casting faint shadows in the moonlight.
You rocked her slowly, the chair creaking gently beneath you, the rhythm syncing with her breaths. Each inhale and exhale was soft, barely audible, but it was enough to fill the room with the quiet hum of life. The music box continued its tune, the figure of Tinker Bell spinning gracefully within, the faint chimes blending with the night.
The world outside seemed far away, distant, and irrelevant. The only thing that mattered in this moment was the little life you held close, the way her chest rose and fell against yours, the warmth of her body, the feel of her heart beating faintly in time with your own. You could feel the bond between you growing stronger with each passing day, the invisible thread that connected mother and child, binding you together in ways that words could never fully capture.
