Like One of Your French Girls
Type: One Shot
Genre: Smut (18+)
Pairing: Michael Jackson x Reader
Tags: #otw!michael, artist!michael, muse!reader, friends to lovers, Love confession, titanic inspired
Summary: You discover Michael has been secretly sketching you for years. Instead of being scared, you make him draw you the right way: naked, just like the french girl’s he drew in Paris.
an: Divider
You sit curled up on the couch, the weight of a good book resting in your hands. The living room is bathed in comfortable silence, the kind that could only exist between people who have known each other long enough to not need constant chatter.
At the opposite end of the couch, Michael sits, his long fingers gripping a pencil. The only sound filling the space is a consistent scratch of graphite against paper.
Michael has been staying with you for a couple of days while he handles his business in the city. Your door was always open to friends, especially him because you've been friends for years.
As you flip a page of your book, you catch a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye. He isn't just looking at his paper but at you. His gaze is intense, tracing the line of your jaw and the way your hair falls over your shoulder.
"What?" you quip, glancing over with a playful smirk.
Michael simply shakes his head the way he always does, his pencil never stops dancing across the page.
Your eyes drift to the sketchbook resting on his lap. You roll your eyes and let out a soft scoff. There he goes again, sketching you without permission.
"What did I say about drawing me?" you scold, though there is no real bite in your voice.
He finally looks up, his doe eyes softening.
"I'm sorry," he confesses. "I can't help it. You're my muse."
The words hit you unexpectedly, registering somewhere deep, somewhere they shouldn't be. A sudden tension flickers between you, making your skin prickle. You shake your head, trying to shoo the butterflies fluttering in your chest, and bury your face back in your book.
Some time passes in a heavier silence until Michael stands up.
"Be right back," he murmurs, heading toward the bathroom.
He leaves his sketchbook on the couch.
A sharp and insistent curiosity claws inside you. Despite how often you caught him sketching you, Michael has never really allowed you to see the sketches. Whenever you've tried to peek, he'd quickly snap the book shut and claim "They aren't good enough."
You know that's a lie. Michael is a phenomenal artist. It was one of his many talents and one of your favorites. His work was breathtaking and raw. You even have a couple of his pieces hanging on your walls.
Unable to resist any longer, you reach out and pull the book toward you. As you flip it open, your breath catches in your throat.
The pages are a shrine to you.
Every inch of the paper is filled with sketches of you, your hands, the curve of your neck. Some depicting you laughing, or sleeping, or simply lost in thought. Some are messy scribbles that look as if he were rushing to capture a fleeting moment.
While the others were extremely detailed, with every lash and pore rendered with an obsessive level of devotion.
As you turn the page, your heart hammers against your ribs. It becomes clear he's been drawing you for a long while. Almost every time he'd been near you. You feel exposed. It's as If he showed parts of you that you haven't even acknowledged or want to acknowledged.
The sound of the bathroom door opening snaps you out of your haze. You quickly slide the book back into its original position then back to your seat, staring into your book as if you hadn't moved an inch.
Michael returns to the couch, sliding back into his spot. He doesn't notice the slight tremor in your hands or the way your breathing has quickened.
A thought begins to conjure in the back of your mind. You feel a sudden surge of power at knowing how much he really sees you—how much he desires to capture you on paper.
Nonchalantly, you rise from the couch without a word. His eyes follow you as you disappear into the hallway. You go to your bedroom, the door clicking shut.
About ten minutes later, you shed your casual clothes and slide into a silk robe, the fabric cool against your skin. You stop in front of the mirror to your vanity and reach for a jewelry box. Inside was a heavy diamond necklace Michael gifted you years ago.
It was absolutely stunning, and far too flashy for everyday wear, plus you'd never found the right occasion to wear it.
Until now.
You walk into the second living room, where the fireplace casts a warm amber glow across the room. You sink into the couch, the heat from the fire warming your legs.
"Michael!" you call out, your voice echoing through the house.
"Yeah?" his voice drifts from the other room, sounding curious but calm.
"Could you come?"
"Sure, where are you?"
"I'm in the other living room—the one with the fireplace," you call back, a small knowing smile playing tentative on your lips.
You hear his footsteps approaching, slow and steady which only juxtaposes your heart that beats fast and fickle the closer he comes. When he finally rounds the corner and enters the room, he stops dead in his tracks.
His breath hitches audibly.
You don't say anything at first. You simply just stand up slowly, the silk of your robe shimmering under the firelight. His eyes are locked on you, tracking every single movement as if he's afraid you'll disappear if he blinks.
"If you're going to draw me, then do it right," you say lazily, your voice dropping to a low provocative octave.
Michael swallows hard, his Adams apple bobbing. He looks completely blindsided.
"What do—what do you mean?" He asks, his composure shattered.
"I want you to draw me like one of your french girls," you murmur. Your gaze remains locked on his as your fingers reach for the silk string holding the robe together.
With a slow, careful motion, you untangle the knot. You let him watch as the fabric begins to slowly gap. Then in one smooth motion you let the robe slide off your shoulders, it glides down your arms and pools at your feet.
The cool air of the room hits your skin, causing a light shiver to run down your back. You stand there completely exposed, your breast poking toward him, your hips connecting into the line of your thighs, the natural state of your unshaved sex on display, all for him to see. The only thing you wore was the diamond necklace around your neck.
Michael's breath hitches again, it's a ragged sound of pure shock mixed with desire. He looks as if he's forgotten how to breathe, his eyes wide as they roam over every inch of your naked body.
"Where do you want me?" You ask, your voice dripped in honey.
"What?" His voice cracks.
"Where do you want me to pose?" you clarify, a teasing smirk ghosts your lips.
The question seems to snap something in place for him. He blinks hard, the shock receding just enough for him to function again. He takes a deep breath, his expression shifting from lust to artistic hunger. You see him slip into artist mode although you can still see the heat in his eyes.
"Oh right—uhh," he stammers for a second. "Could you lay across the couch...with one arm draped above your forehead?"
You do exactly as he asks. You sink onto the couch, reclining in a sensual stretch. You arch your back slightly, your chest forward and your legs slightly bended at the knee, As you settle, the heavy diamond necklace falls between your breasts.
Michael disappears for a moment to get his sketchbook and pencils. When he returns, the air in the room isn't as charged. He is extremely focused, his gaze scanning your body was not just as a man looking at a the figure of a woman, but as a creator looking at his subject. He sits on the arm chair opposite of you, grips his pencil and begins to stare at you with a level of concentration you'd never seem before.
It's as if his eyes are tracing the lines of your skin before the pencil even ghosts the paper.
Times stretches as warm flickering light covers the living room. The occasional crackle and pop of the logs in the fireplace fill the silence among stretching sound of charcoal dancing across paper.
As minutes tick by, the initial rush of the dare begins to fade. Your arm, draped above your forehead begins to tingle, a dull numbness creeps from your fingertips up to your shoulder. You shift slightly, your muscles twitching, and begin to lower your arm.
"Hold just a second! I almost got it," Michael says quickly, he doesn't even look up, his eyes darting rapidly between his book and your body.
"My arm is tired," you sigh, the sound soft and breathy in the quiet of the room.
"I know. You're doing great," he praises, his voice a soothing softness. He finally looks up, his eyes linger on the curve of your hip and the middle of your chest, and by the way hunger crosses his features you can tell he's not looking at the huge rock dangling there.
Silence engulfs the room again, heavier than before. You watch him with an intensity that mirrors his own. You study the way the firelight plays across his face, the way Its glow highlights the sharp lines of his cheekbones, and shadows soften his features.
You can see his gaze—no feel his gaze cascading across your body. He traces the line of your throat, the slope of your breast, and the dip of your waist with a heat that makes your skin burn.
A low heat begins to build deep in your stomach, and you know it isn’t because of the fireplace.
But as silence linger, the confidence you felt earlier begins to waver. A sudden, harsh wave of insecurity crashes into you. You've been friends for years, but Michael has never seen you like this. He'd never seen the softness of your stomach, or the shade of your nipples, or the way your thighs naturally meet.
Why did I do this? you wonder, your heart hammering hard against your ribs. What got into me? Did I really have to strip completely naked?
You feel exposed, and not just physically, but emotionally. It must be the spirit of being the daughter of a theater actress. It was in your blood to be dramatic or cause a provocative scene.
You lean back into the cushions, reclaiming your pose, though the hammering in your chest remains.
You notice Michael has stopped drawing. He's staring at a specific part of the sketch, his brows scrunching together with a deep frown. He erases the section with aggressive, quick strokes, to then only begin sketching the same line again.
He erases it again, starts over then erases again. Doing the cycle over and over again.
"Mikey, what is it?" you ask.
He lets out a huff of breath, his face scrunching in frustration. He looks at you, then back to the paper.
"I can't seem to get this line right," he mutters, his voice strained. He does't specify which line, but his eyes drift downward to the delicate curve where your thigh meets your hip.
"Maybe you need a closer look?" you say slyly. To emphasize the invitation, you slowly drag your hand up the curve of your hips.
Michael freezes. His eyes snap up from the sketchbook to lock on yours, wide again with the disbelief from earlier. He looks at you, then back to the drawing, then back to your naked body, his chest beginning to heave.
"Maybe you should come closer to see," you repeat.
"You think?" he asks, his voice sounding strained.
"Yes," you whisper breathlessly, the word barely leaving your mouth before he moves.
He rises from his chair and in two long strides, you feel the couch sink under his weight as he sits on the edge. His presence suddenly overwhelming as you feel heat radiating off him. The close proximity intoxicating.
Reaching out, you take his hand in yours. His palm slightly rough, guiding it down your body, his fingers trembling.
"Like this," you coach him softly.
His hand slides up your bare hip, the friction of his palm against your body sends a cascade of goosebumps across your skin. He lets out a shaky breath, uneven and heavy.
"What part are you having difficulty with?" you ask, your voice trembling slightly.
Michael doesn't answer. He just stares at you, his gaze roaming across your face, your breasts, and the diamond necklace that sparks prismatically in the firelight.
"Mikey?"
"It’s impossible to draw how beautiful you actually are," he says blankly, his tone devoid of its usual composure.
You shake your head. You've seen his sketchbook. You know how he sees you. How he captures your soul in the way a camera never could.
"That's not true," you tell him.
"It is," he insists, his hand remaining on your skin, warm and comforting. "I've drawn you many times before...but I just can't seem to capture you the way I really want too." Passion ringing in his voice.
You sit up, shifting so that your face is just before his. Your breasts sway with the movement, nearly brushing his chest. His eyes lock onto yours. You see it now. The hunger that had been quietly simmering beneath the surface of your friendship.
Silence falls into the room, broken only by the sounds of your breaths and the crackle of the fire.
"Well maybe..." you say, breaking the silence, your breath ghosting over his lips. "Maybe it's because you need hands on experience."
You reach for his hands and glide them upward, guiding his palms to cup your breasts. You let out a quiet shaky sigh as he gently squeezes, his fingers molding into the softness of them.
His touch is electric and grounding all at once.
You lean in further, closing the gap, then press your lips against his. It’s long and languid. A low vibrating moan escapes from his throat. Your tongue slips through the seam of his lips, parting them, and you slide inside, tangling with his in a deep hungry kiss that tastes of longing.
His hands begin to knead your breast harsher. Every time his fingers graze your nipples, an electric current shoots straight down to your core. Passion grows to a hot demanding ache that pools low in your stomach.
You hook your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, wanting to feel the full weight of him against you. You take one of his hands and guide it from your breast down past your stomach and directly between your legs.
You press his palm against the wet heat of your sex, your hips arching instinctively toward him.
Th heat in the room is nothing compared to the fire raging between your legs.
"I need you to touch me," you plea, your voice scraped dry with desire.
Michael lets out a low groan at your shamelessness, the sound vibrating from his chest and into yours. To your pleasure, he doesn't wait any longer. His hand curls deeper into your cunt, his fingers sliding through your arousal. The tips of his fingers find your clit, rubbing the swollen bud at a pace that makes your entire body shudder.
You pull him back into a kiss, your mouth crashing against his with a chaos that mirrors what his fingers do. While your tongues tangle, his fingers begin to circle your clit in a steady motion. The sensation is overwhelming, causing you to gasp into his mouth, back arching off the couch as pleasure crashes over you in waves.
"I've always wanted to touch you like this," he confesses against your lips, voice thick with the longing he can no longer hide.
He increases the pace, circling your clit faster. The friction is perfect, driving you closer to the edge.
"Really? you gasp, your breathing coming out short and jagged.
"Yeah, just like this," he responds, his voice low and hungry. He sounds like a man who has spent years starving for the one thing he can finally taste.
"What else did you want to do?" you whisper, your hips tilting to give him better access.
"I want to kiss you down there too," he murmurs, his eyes darkening as he looks down at the wetness glistening between your thighs.
"So, do it," you say, the words tumbling out way too quickly. Desire already has your body hot and with the mere promise of his mouth on you makes you burn hotter.
And Michael doesn't need to be told twice. He breaks the kiss and begins a slow, almost torturous descent down your body. He kisses your collarbone, then the valley between your breasts just under the diamond.
He moves lower, kissing your stomach and the soft curve of your hip, his breath against your skin. Finally, he reaches your cunt, parting your lips with his fingers, exposing your swollen and dripping cunt.
His breath ghosts over you, making you whine with the need to feel the warmth of his mouth on you.
He plunges his tongue forward, and the first contact is an explosion. His tongue is warm, wet, and firm, licking a long stripe from the bottom of your opening all the way up to your clit. You scream out, your fingers digging into his shoulders.
Michael eats you out with an intensity, as if he was studying every fold and crease of your cunt with his tongue. He swirls his tongue around your clit, sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth and applying that pressure that sends sparks through your body.
He dives deeper, his tongue sliding inside your cunt. He must've misspoke when he said he wanted to kiss you down here, because what he'd been doing was not kissing, maybe sucking the soul out of you would be a better way off phrasing it. The texture of his tongue plunging inside you, scraping your g spot has you drowning.
How precise he was, it made you wonder where he'd learned it from? And who did he practice on. The idea sends a prickle jealousy up your spine. But it dies as soon as it formed when he licks your clit in fluttering movements that drive you crazy.
"Michael...oh god, Michael!" you cry out, your legs shaking, heels of digging into the couch.
He doesn't stop. He uses his hands to spread you wider, exposing every inch of you into his mouth. He laps up your juices, drinking you in while his tongue flicks rapidly against your clit. You feel the tension coiling tighter and tighter until it finally snaps.
You shatter, your body convulses as a powerful orgasm rips through you, leaving you breathless and trembling in his arms. Michael doesn't pull away, he continues to lick away the remnants of your climax, humming at your taste.
The aftershocks of your orgasm are still rippling through your thighs when Michael finally pulls his face from between your thighs. He is breathless, his lips glisten with your juices, and his eyes look like vampires who found their newest prey.
He strips out his clothes in a slow melodic motion, his eyes never leave yours. When he's finally undressed, his body is lean and muscular in the way that dancers are. He looms over you on the couch, his weight pinning you under him, and for a moment, he just looks at you.
His gaze drifts upward to the diamond necklace resting on your chest. He reaches out, his thumb brushes the cold stone.
"You still have this? I remember when I first gave it to you," his voice a low murmur.
"Yeah," your hand brushes his on the stone. You lock in eye contact as something unfamiliar bubbles between you.
"I think that was when I realized I loved you. The way your eyes sparkled...the way you threw your arms around me...it did something to me," he confesses, the words pouring out easily.
His confession hits harder than your orgasm did.
"I hope you know I love you," he says it again, and the words finally cement in your mind.
A part of you always knew that, but the larger part of you categorized it as platonic love. So hearing him say it like that makes a sob of relief and desire escape from your throat as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer.
"I hope you know I love you too, Michael. Like so much," you confess back, breathily.
Michael captures your lips in a bruising kiss, his tongue primal in your mouth as he shifts his hips. You feel the tip of his cock at your opening, the head rubbing up against your clit before he slowly sinks into you.
He hisses as your walls clench around him, inch by inch, stretching to accommodate his size. He fills you completely, all the way to your cervix with a force that makes your toes curl.
Despite his tenderness from earlier, he begins to rock into you with a raw intensity, hips slamming against yours with a wet slapping sound that echoes over the crackling fire.
Michael mushes your brain with his passion. One moment he's kissing your eyelids, drinking up your tears, whispering your name like a prayer, and then the next he's gripping your hips so hard that his knuckles turn white. He drives himself into you with a roughness you wouldn't peg him for and you love it. You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him to go deeper—to ruin you.
"God, you're so perfect," he groans.
Michael shifts his angle, lifting your legs higher to drive deeper to directly hit your g spot. Every thrust is a physical manifestation of all the long years spent yearning for you all over his sketchbooks.
He rocks into you like your his masterpiece, and you just might be.
You moan out as his tip brushes that spot that has you foaming out the mouth. You feel that tension building again, this time tighter and deeper than before. You claw at his back, your nails leaving red streaks across his skin.
Michael's pace becomes frantic, his breathing ragged as he chases his peak. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, biting softly at your skin as he delivers a final series of devastating thrusts. With a muffled cry, he erupts, shooting hot ropes of his release inside you.
Your unraveling simultaneous with his, your walls clamp around him like a vice, milking every last drop from him as you climax hard before you both collapse, tangled in limbs and sweat.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the crackle of the fire and your uneven breaths. The air was thick with the smell of sex.
Slowly, Michael untangled himself. He reaches for his sketchbook and pencil, his movements calm and precise after reducing you to your rawest form. He continues his sketch of you, freshly fucked and dazed.
He captures the flush of your skin, the disheveled state of your hair, and the glow of pleasure in your eyes.
He stared at the page for a moment, then back at you with that boyish smile that made butterflies flutter uncontrollably inside your stomach.
"Perfect," he said, finally agreeing on its quality.
