la petite mort (18+)
nicholas x reader
shout out to my friend who poetically complimented me and fueled this fic idea you're the goat bestie
a story of a passionate painter and his muse.
tags: smut, artist!nico, afab!reader, he speaks so poetically highkey, dirty talk, oral, he uses a paintbrush on you and im not sure how to label that, squirting, cum eating, cum facial, unprotected sex, coming inside, pet names, some rough sex
wc: 4.8k
disclaimer: all of my works are purely fiction and do not represent the members in any way
The minute you walked it, time stopped.
Nicholas noticed you immediately. Silver dress, a heart-shaped locket that sat just above the sternum, slightly dirty sneakers; everyone else around him faded into black as he watched you– only you– your fingers fidgeting at your sides while you bit your lip and darted your eyes around the exhibit.
He was half paying attention when observers came up to him to ask questions about his pieces, a memorized script spilling from his lips without error as his eyes continued to follow you from painting to painting.
“If you’d excuse me,” he cleared his throat, bowing politely to the guests before taking his leave.
He stepped closer to you. Two steps.
Just a few more.
Even from the back, you were perfect. Flawless. You had potential, an amount that felt overwhelming inside of Nicholas’ chest. He needed you to be his muse– there was no other option.
“This is one of my favourites,” he said, gently, to grab your attention without startling you. He was standing beside you now.
You turned your head and looked up at him briefly, a soft smile tugging at your lips. “Is it?” You asked, scanning him quickly from head to toe. You returned your attention to the painting. “It feels very…” You pondered for a moment, trying to find the right words to say, "lonely and sad."
He glanced sideways at you, body turning slightly away from the piece to face you a little bit. “Would you believe me if I told you I painted this at one of the happiest times in my life?”
You chuckled. “I would,” your eyes met his for a moment, “and I’d also say the cliche line of art is open for interpretation.”
Nicholas smiled. “If it feels lonely and sad to you, then it is.”
You both stood there for a few moments. Still. Quiet. The chatter from the other guests faded effortlessly into the background as you took turns sneaking glances back and forth between the painting and each other. Something about him was very alluring. He was mysterious, which is what instantly drew you to visit his exhibition in the first place when you saw it advertised by the local arts organization earlier in the week.
La Petite Mort. A Little Death.
That was the name of his exhibition, a euphemism for an orgasm in French. Nothing about his art seemed erotic, though, at least on the surface. Perhaps there was some underlying message the average onlooker would fail to notice, while more seasoned art lovers would pick up on its subtlety. You considered yourself the latter, yet had a bit of trouble finding the connection to the theme the title would infer.
“Why did you choose La Petite Mort as the name for your show?” You asked, now completely facing him.
He was taller than you realized, eyes like a fox peering down through slightly hooded lids. His lips were a perfect shade of red as if they were permanently stained by the world's finest wine. His frame was curved just enough, your heart quickening the more you observed him. Your eyes landed and lingered on his waist.
He smirked. You didn’t notice.
“Hmmm,” he thought, lips pursed as he rested his chin into his hand, tapping it with his fingertips, “Painting for me feels like that.”
“How poetic of you,” you joked, but feeling very moved by his honesty. He chuckled at your teasing. “Would you say it’s better than sex?”
“Not exactly,” he shook his head, “but the feeling when I’m painting, when I finish something I’m proud of, feels like a very similar and blissful rush to an orgasm.”
“That sounds amazing,” you gushed, wondering if you would one day find something that made you feel that way, too.
In truth, life was a drag for you. Everything felt dull and grey, colour seemingly evaporating as each day passed. The same old shit, just a different day. It’s no wonder you felt loneliness and sadness speaking to you through Nicholas’ paintings; you were projecting your emotions onto them.
“Do you have something like that in your life?” Nicholas asked, pulling you out of your depressing thoughts and back to the original question.
You shook your head. “No, but I hope one day I discover it.”
“Would you like to explore that with me?”
Your eyes went wide, taken aback by his words. You weren’t sure what he was implying. “How so?”
“I want to paint you,” he answered. “You’re so fucking beautiful, I feel this pounding in my chest and ache of passion whenever I look at you.” He was slightly breathless, the words flowing out of him quickly. “Ever since the first moment I saw you tonight, I knew you were the one.”
You were utterly shocked. He was complimenting you in the most decorative way, your heart now beating against your rib cage exactly in the same way he described his own. “I–I don’t even know what to say,” you exhaled, feeling overwhelmed and extremely attracted to him.
“You can think it over,” he smiled politely, hands digging into his pockets. “My number is on here.” He handed you a business card.
You nodded, swallowing hard as you took the cardstock from his hand and pulled your gaze away from him. You were nervous now, the tightness in your chest growing exponentially the more you stood there next to him, just inches away from your arms touching. In that moment, you realized you should probably go before you ended up doing something stupid, like asking him to sleep with you to fill the void within yourself. There was no doubt in your mind that you wanted to get to know Nicholas beyond the surface of his artwork. From the short exchange of words you two shared, his mind was creating knots in your stomach; he was deep, focused, real. Perhaps allowing him to use you for his art would be a good opportunity to dive deeper into who he was.
“I will,” you replied, beginning to walk towards the exit. “It was nice meeting you, Nicholas.”
“Nico is fine,” he said, “Have a good night…” He didn’t know your name.
“Y/n,” you smiled, hand pushing open the door to leave.
“Y/n,” he repeated as he saw you off with a nod.
It took you a few weeks to build up the courage to reach out to Nicholas. Besides the fact you kept psyching yourself out of doing it, work was kicking your ass. Deadlines upon deadlines– it felt never ending, and the paper stacks only kept growing bigger and bigger.
When you decided to major in Psychology, you had a very different expectation of what you’d be doing at an actual job. It wasn’t fun anymore, but you kept trying because you had rent to pay, and you wanted to at least attempt to find joy in it again, the same joy that got you interested in it in the first place.
You were deeply intrigued by the human psyche– ever since you were a kid– the first signs being when you’d play with your stuffed animals, you’d make them act out conversations that seemed far too intelligent for a six-year-old to be having.
In some ways, you regretted choosing it as a career. Now, it felt more like a chore, lacking the once sparkling ambition and enjoyment you used to feel during your college days.
You sighed, leaning back into the desk chair as your phone buzzed. To your surprise, Nicholas responded back much quicker than expected. You thought with him being an artist that he’d be stuck in the flow state and not respond until days later. It was nice to be proven otherwise.
Nico: i thought you’d never reach out
You: well, here i am! sorry i took so long – been so busy omg
Of course, you weren’t going to tell him it was also because you were nervous about contacting him.
Nico: i hear that – do you happen to have some free time this weekend? saturday evening?
You: i do – what’s up?
He sent you an address.
Nico: come here at 7 pm
You raised your brow as you read the text, feeling somewhat suspicious. The location showed an empty warehouse on the map. Well, I’ll just bring a pocket knife and extra pepper spray, you thought, making sure you were prepared if he turned out to be insane.
You: sounds good, i’ll see you then
Nico: awesome! talk more later, the paints are calling
You chuckled.
You were thankful the street lights illuminated the warehouse just enough, and it seemed to be located in a busy part of the city. You took a deep breath, nerves easing up just a tad as you fished into your pockets for your phone. You dialed Nicholas’ number.
“H–Hello?” He answered, voice nearly muffled. You heard an array of sounds, his phone clearly unstable in between what you assumed to be his ear and shoulder.
“Hey, Nico,” you greeted, “I’m out front.”
“Oh!” There was a sudden clamor, one that you could make out just slightly outside of the building itself.
Your eyes flickered up towards the entrance, the overhead door rising up only a few seconds later. You ended the call once Nicholas came into view. Somehow, even while wearing baggy clothes and being covered in paint from head to toe, he still managed to look absolutely breathtaking.
“Hi,” you smiled, carefully stepping into the warehouse.
He seemed astonished you actually showed up. “You came.”
“I said I would, didn’t I?”
Nicholas bit his lip bashfully before closing the door behind you. “I–I thought you’d stand me up, if I’m being honest.”
You laughed, patting his shoulder assuringly as you stepped further into the space. “I wouldn’t lie to you. I keep my word.”
He grinned, widely, in a way that gave you the impression he was deeply grateful that you followed through with your agreement– a look that, perhaps, had never had a chance to show up before. “No one has ever actually come through for me.”
“Well,” you paused, rethinking if you should say what were you about to, “you are pretty straightforward and honest. Not a lot of people are used to that.”
He nodded, letting out a small laugh. “I can agree with that.” He placed his hand on the small of your back, gently guiding you further into the space. “I hate beating around the bush, I just say what I mean,” you eyed a few seating options while he continued, “you can sit anywhere you’d like.” You nodded, eyes settling on the living room. “Do you want something to drink? Eat?” He offered.
“Just water is fine.” You smiled while he entered the kitchen. The warehouse was beautiful and very spacious. The industrial decor and open loft design felt very Nicholas to you, even from your very limited impression of him. You took notice of the bedroom area, eyes glancing between that and the kitchen. When he first sent you the address, you assumed it may have been a simple art studio space he rented– but this seemed like his actual home. “Do you live here?” You asked, eventually deciding to take a seat on the grey L-shaped couch in the living room.
He returned to your side, carefully placing the water onto the end table beside you so it wouldn’t spill. “Only when I’m riding an inspiration high.” He sat down on the corner of the couch, just a few inches away from you. “I actually have a few roommates elsewhere, but they’re so used to me only living there part-time at this point.” He laughed at his reality, elbows resting on his knees, chin in hands, while he observed you sipping your water. You felt self-conscious the longer his eyes lingered, nearly choking on the liquid before placing it back down. Nicholas' face dropped into an expression of concern for a moment, his body automatically moving closer to your side. “Shit, you okay?”
Him sitting so close that he might as well be on your lap didn’t help you calm down one bit. “I–I’m fine,” you cleared your throat.
He let out a sigh of relief, throwing his head back against the couch. The heat kindling between your bodies was growing apparent, his shoulder nearly touching yours. He turned his head, peering down at you. A lazily smile tugged at his lips, and your heart nearly stopped. God, why did he have to be so fucking beautiful?
You didn’t realize how intensely you had been looking at him. “You know,” he started, “maybe you should be the one painting me instead with how hard you're staring.” He teased. You darted your eyes away from him immediately, cheeks redder than the crimson acrylic that stained his sleeves as you attempted to calm down. You could hear him laughing beside you, having riled you up from his words. “I think I want to paint you just like this.”
You furrowed your brows, opting to glance at him through your peripheral this time, rather than fully turn to him, to save your heart. “Like what?”
“Nervous. Shy and blushing. Body trembling.” You were finding it harder to breathe the more he spoke. “How you are right now is so,” he paused for a moment. Your short breaths were the only thing audible between you and him. “So captivating and impassioned.” Your mind was going hazy. “Does being close to me make you feel the way painting makes me feel?”
You choked on nothing, lips quivering as heat pooled between your thighs. Jesus, if you didn’t know he was a painter, you’d assume he was a poet with the way he handled words. Every single one he breathed was sent straight to your core. Fuck, maybe agreeing to meet with him was a bad idea.
“I–” you were at a loss for words. You were not about to admit to him how turned on and needy you were for him right now.
He broke into a wide grin, tapping your knee before he stood up from the couch, the touch feeling electric on your skin. You watched him as he walked over to his painting corner, pulling out a stool and setting up his supplies. A few minutes later, he motioned you to come closer, and before you could even make the decision, your body was moving towards him.
“Have a seat here for me,” he instructed gently, tapping on the top of the stool. You were worried he’d see a mark on it later from how soaked your cunt was. “I already prepped the background for this piece, so you won’t have to sit here quite as long as usual.” You nodded, silently gulping as you sat down on the stool like he asked of you. Your hands fiddled in your lap, eyes unsure of where to look while your legs kicked slightly below you. “Try to be still,” he suggested, low, his honey-like rasp entering your ears and promptly infiltrating your brain. You inhaled sharply, doing your best to stay unmoving. His eyes burning into you only made it worse. You weren’t looking at him, so his smirks of knowingness went unnoticed by you. As an artist, he possessed an uncanny ability to read emotions.
You felt like you had been sitting there for hours. “How much longer?” You asked softly.
“Do you need a break?”
You shook your head. “No, I just–” you sighed, having no idea how to finish your statement without admitting how you were feeling right now. The warehouse felt like it was on fire.
He paused the strokes of his paintbrush, looked up from the canvas, then honed his eyes in on you. You felt your stomach burn. “I’m almost done,” he reassured you, “I’m just missing one small thing.” You were afraid to look at him, knowing damn well he had now stepped away from the canvas and was standing in front of you. He kneeled down so his face was level with yours, his fingers delicately touching your chin and turning it to face him. You shivered, eyes involuntarily meeting his.
You were fucked.
“I can feel you shaking, y/n,” he discerned, lips parting as he continued searching your irises. His thumb brushed against your cheek. “May I give you a little death?”
You swore you stopped breathing, eyes suddenly glazed over as he just smiled at you. In that moment, you didn’t care if he was only using you for his art– you needed him.
“T–Touch me, Nico,” you breathed, hand reaching up to grab his bicep and pull him closer.
His hands trailed up your thighs, reaching dangerously close to your core. He could sense how turned on you were, your heated skin being the messenger. Carefully, he pulled your body forward just a tad so you were nearly sitting on the edge of the stool. He parted your legs, hiking up the hem of your skirt. You silently thanked yourself for opting to wear a dress that night.
He gasped when he saw your panties, the arousal staining and dripping through them. “Fuck,” he hissed, fingertips grazing just over the top of the lace, “all of this for me?”
You let out a light moan as he continued to play with the material, hands gripping the sides of the stool in an attempt to keep yourself still. “Please,” you whimpered, “I need to feel your tongue.”
Nicholas smirked, head dropping to your needy cunt as he wrapped his fingers around the straps of your panties, pulling them down to your ankles and off of your body. He spread your folds apart with his fingers, your arousal glistening and appetizing. He licked his lips before burying his mouth into you, slick covering his nose and chin as he messily flicked his tongue all over your folds and clit. Your chest heaved up and down intensely, one of your hands finding its way into his hair. The stool was shifting from its spot, Nicholas offering one of his hands to assist you in keeping it steady. The warehouse was filled with the filthy sounds of his mouth against your wet pussy and your cries of pleasure, each one echoing off the walls with perfect acoustics. Nicholas’ eyes were rolling as he hummed against you, vibrations being sent through your veins while he devoured you whole. He paused for a moment, pulling away to look up at you. Fuck, seeing his face covered in you made you weak.
“Can I try something?” He asked. You raised your brow at him as he stood up, shuffled over to his tray of paintbrushes, opened a new pack, pulled out the widest one, then walked back over to you. He kneeled down so his face was level with your lower body once again. He held the brush up to you, and you understood. He wanted to use it instead of his fingers.
You’d never been asked that before, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t intrigued. You were pretty open to trying anything once. You bit your lip and nodded, parting your legs for him this time so he could continue. “Go ahead,” you whispered.
He started with the bristles, delicately grazing them along your clit, swollen and red. You inhaled sharply, the stool legs lifting off the ground briefly before returning to the floor with a light clang. He then circled the brush around your folds, your wetness coating the bristles as if he was going to use your arousal as paint later. You moaned, head falling backwards as he continued to touch you. A few moments later, you felt the handle lightly tap your entrance.
“May I?” He asked, looking to you for permission to put it inside of you. You nodded, and he carefully pushed the handle into your hole. You gasped, the feeling being more enjoyable than you expected. Nicholas was watching you, eyes glistening as he observed all of your changing facial expressions. His favourite was when he touched your sweet spot and your mouth dropped further and eyes rolled back. “Do you like it?” He asked, already knowing the answer.
“Y–Yeah,” you choked.
Nicholas dropped his mouth to your clit again, working on it steadily as he moved the brush in and out of you. You were this close to falling off of the stool, Nicholas doing his best to keep you in place with his mouth. But at that point, it wasn’t working, so he gave up, pausing on your for a moment to pick you up, kick the stool out of the way, and lay you flat on top of the newspapers that aligned the floor. He wasted no time going back to his thrusts and licks on you, your body now free to move however it pleased. Your legs jolted as the brush tapped your g-spot, your hands involuntarily grabbing his hair to push his mouth harder against your sensitive nub. Your moans were growing louder and louder, his sucks and light grazing of teeth on your clit sending you into overdrive.
“Oh, fuck!” You yelled, releasing onto his mouth and the brush. Your body convulsed, the intense ecstasy washing over your entire being as you rode out your high. Through hooded lids, you watched Nicholas lean up from your core, shoving the brush handle into his mouth to lick you clean off of it. He groaned, wishing there was still more of you left on it to taste.
“That was perfect,” he expressed, running his fingers along the sides of your body before kissing your lips gently. He stood up from the floor, walking back over to the unfinished art piece. He glanced between you and the painting, the faint sounds of the bristles against the canvas helping you come down from your orgasm peacefully. You watched him admirably, your chest lifting up and down slowly. You saw him as he broke into a huge smile, one that was filled with so much pride and joy. “Fuck,” he exhaled, “I have never made a piece so,” he breathed again, “so consummate before.”
You lazily sat up on your elbows. “Am I allowed to look?”
He nodded. “Of course.”
You pulled yourself up onto your feet and approached him. When you saw the completed painting, it felt like the world stopped. Everything around you faded except for the piece and Nicholas. You had never seen yourself portrayed in such an aesthetic and meaningful way. You threw your hands over your mouth astounded.
“Wow,” you exclaimed, “this is… I don’t even know how to describe it,” you turned to him and smiled, “it’s just fucking incredible.”
He blushed for the first time. So, you weren’t the only one who could get flustered. “I’m glad you think so.”
You felt a pang in your chest, the passion seemingly growing intenser with each moment shared between you and Nicholas. “I think,” you started, leaning closer to his face. You felt his hesitant breath graze across your lips as you placed your hands onto his hips, “I think you’re my petite mort.” His eyes went wide. “You asked me the night of your exhibition if I had anything that made me feel the way painting does for you,” you watched how his adam’s apple moved up and down in his throat, “well, I believe that thing is you.”
Within less than a second, he was grabbing your face, kissing your lips fervently and turning your bodies to push you towards the couch. Your calves hit the side, sending you backwards onto the cushions while he toppled over you. His tongue was nearly touching the back of your throat, hands exploring everywhere he could reach beneath your dress as you pulled him down against you as hard as you could possibly manage. You were entangled, messy, hips desperately meeting each other halfway as you both craved stimulation. You tugged at his blouse, undoing the buttons impatiently. The shirt slipped down his arms and onto the floor and a moment later he broke the kiss to help you remove your dress.
He leaned over, placing his teeth around your bra straps as he pulled them off your shoulders. He reached a hand under your back to unclasp it, him ripping it off of you hastily. He was salivating at the sight of your chest, nipples perked and ready for him. He started from your forehead and gradually made his way down your body, kissing you tenderly and full of passion. He landed on your nipples, taking them into his mouth and flicking his tongue around them like a starved man. You were mewling, pawing at his back as you gasped blissfully.
“Shit,” you hissed, pushing your head back into the cushions as your nails pierced his spine, “your mouth is perfect.”
You felt him smile against you. He unbuttoned his pants and removed them without breaking contact with your chest. One of his hands came up to rest on your neck, him squeezing it gently. You groaned, body jerking upwards as your dripping core, having still been exposed from earlier, rubbed against his tip. He moaned, hand tightening around your throat in response. He removed his lips from your nipples to kiss your mouth.
He readied himself at your entrance, his cock dripping and begging for your warmth to wrap around it. “Do you want me to put on a condom?” He asked. He wanted you to be comfortable, but fuck, was he hoping you would say no. He wanted to feel all of you. Every. Fucking. Inch.
You shook your head. He silently thanked the gods of love. “I want to feel everything,” you said, “fucking fill me up, give me all of you.”
With your permission, he slid himself into you, effortlessly bottoming you out because of how wet you were. He kept his hand firmly around your neck, his free one gripping your hip to help guide himself into you. Nicholas was losing it already, legs practically already turned to jelly as he felt you clench around his cock. He wasn’t going to allow himself to come so soon, though, locking in to his bedroom alter ego.
His face grew dark, teeth gritting as he locked eyes with you. You felt your body shiver from his intense gaze, excited and anticipating him to ravage you.
“What do you want, baby, hm?” He cooed, slowly picking up his pace. “What does this perfect little pussy want?”
You found it hard to speak, eyes rolling back and becoming so fucked-out from the feeling of him inside of you that you have no idea how you managed to respond. “Ruin me.”
Nicholas didn’t need to be asked twice. His hips starting to thrust into you unrelenting, broken moans and rasps dripping from his lips as his tip hit your cervix.
“Fuck!” he hissed, focusing on the way your walls enveloped his shaft. They were so warm, so perfectly made for him. “You’re going to make me obsessed with you.” He whimpered, his composure faltering just a bit. “God, you feel so fucking amazing around me.”
You were melting into the couch, body involuntary along moving with him as you felt your orgasm start to creep up. He was pounding into you so unforgiving, you knew for sure you’d have trouble walking tomorrow. “Shit, Ni– oh fuck– mph– FUCK!” You were screaming, arms clawing at his biceps as you felt your body begin to shake. “I’m fucking coming!”
Nicholas couldn’t help but whine with you as you came, the feeling of your juices dripping down his cock causing his mind to race. He was close himself, sustaining the same pace while you rode out your orgasm and began to come down. You were so sensitive, but fuck, you didn’t want him to stop.
“Oh my god,” he cried, his eyes rolling back as he felt himself about to burst, “I’m going to paint you with my fucking cum.”
With one final thrust, He released his seed into you, pulling out halfway through to decorate your gorgeous little tummy and face with some of it, too. You had no idea how he had so much semen, he must have been suppressed for a while. You giggled, licking your lips clean of the cum on your face, elated from him filling you up and adorning your skin with him.
“You’re so fucking freaky, Nico,” you teased, voice coming out much like a yawn as the ecstasy was still potent in your system. “First you fucked me with your paintbrush, then came all over me.”
He chuckled, collapsing gently onto your chest. He leaned his head up to look at you, chin resting on your sternum. “What can I say?” He stuck out his tongue playfully. “I’m an artist.”
