Nepenthe

nepenthe [ni-pen-thee] –noun

1. a drug or drink, or the plant yielding it, mentioned by ancient writers as having the power to bring forgetfulness of sorrow or trouble.

2. anything inducing a pleasurable sensation of forgetfulness, esp. of sorrow or trouble.

Chapter V

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Nikita is angry with me.

I had promised to remain contented in the confines of our tiny Rivet City flat for two days, living amongst the mice and skittering radroaches that would encroach the feeble boundaries of our cramped kitchenette whenever Nikita snuffed the flames of our numerous oil lamps. However, one particularly boring afternoon (I was by my lonesome; my love was perched atop the broken bow of the ship, repairing his weapons and absorbing the acerbic sunlight that seemed to leave greasy streaks down dusty shoulders,) I found my attentions wandering to fairer regions, so I set off, bidding adieu to the city doormen and taking a walk.

As I walked, I flexed my new hands and admired the gaping addition to my diminished repertoire of fingers. It is certainly a strange experience, to look where something once was and to see where something now isn’t. All of my life I was under the strict impression that I was infallibly familiar with my own hands, but as I curled my finger and contemplated the minimal movement of my right-most stump, I realised I could not stringently remember my pinky finger if I tried; I had to consult the visible services of my other hand.

I was so engrossed in my observations that I did not notice a Deathclaw approaching me from behind, albeit I did notice the mini-nuke, as its unexpected propulsion hurled me several feet forward; and I did, of course, feel Nikita’s calloused palm - a palm which has only mollycoddled my body thus far in an arguably amative fashion - slap me across the face. I had stared at him with anger burning in my eyes and my bad hand cradling my cheek, several insinuating phrases burgeoning on the tip of my tongue - but then he slapped me again. I had called him names and slunk away from his imposing and statesque personage, wounded on many levels as I insulted his cooking, his impulsiveness, his bedroom skills. He had patiently reached for my wrist, and I curled it against my chest, asking me if he wanted to molest my injuries as well. He had absolute dander displayed outright on his face, and breathed through his teeth asking if my conniption had concluded, then brought my tirade to a screeching halt by throwing me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and marching me back inside the city limits.

Forgive my brevity, but rehashing these events leaves me with a sour taste in my mouth, so I am attempting to bring you up to speed as quickly as possible.

We had argued and vomited equally obscene barbs toward one another, some profoundly damaging and some laughable in their below-the-belt pettiness. I have had few proper altercations with Nikita; he is a man of so few words. When he raises his voice, even going so far as to insult various facets of my character (calling me a whore in perpetual heat, so eager to get my belly full from any viable man,) I am aware of something being acutely wrong with him. I suppose I was thoughtless to venture into the Wastes and not expect some kind of trouble, but the severity of Nikita’s rancor still managed to surprise me. He had left and slammed the heavy metal door, shoving a chair against the doorknob so I could not escape.

I had howled for a decent amount of time, raking at my face with nine fingernails and finding solace only with my face nuzzled into a pillow that bore Nikita’s signature scent. I drifted off into an angry sleep in which my irascible lover (ex-lover?) shot me dirty glances and sat upon his barstool, ashing a cigarette into my eyes. He downed dry vermouth one after another, and when I kissed him his mouth tasted of fire and sandalwood.

My dreams were not too far off, for shortly after two am, Nikita stumbled into our broken home (after struggling with the chair for several moments,) his breath reeking of cheap bourbon.

Nikita finds most alcohols palatable, but I have never known him as the type to drown his sorrows in clear liquors. So here I am, as we speak, sitting in bed and watching my partner squirm on his knees and plead to be allowed back inside my arms. Had he been sober, he would have forced his way into my embrace, and I would have melted against his chiseled body like I always do; now, in a sign of drunken submission and agonising regret, he was holding my feet, my hands - whatever appendage he could get a hold of without me yanking it away from his offending fingers - and begging. Begging for me. Begging for the sweet nectar found only in the kiss of a merciful lover.

“Get away from me,” I hiss at him, scooting away as though his fingertips bleed fire as they dance across the expanse of my skin. He is babbling, incoherent; he cries for me once more and situates himself on the foot of the bed, staring at me with red-rimmed and baleful doe-eyes.

“Søren, please,” he pleads, his voice a slow and drunken drawl. “I’m so sorry, I - I can’t believe I hit you, I was - you were going to die, you were going to die and you couldn’t defend yourself, oh God, Søren, if you had died - “

His voice spills from his lips like ichor. I am eyeing him warily with a thin film of disgust over my features, although I am somewhat enjoying the attention. Nikita is rarely so docile, and the unusual position of power bestowed upon me stimulates both my confidence and my arousal. I know he feels the same perverse excitement, for I can feel his heat pressing against my inner thigh as he maneuvers his large body on top of mine. “Please, I beseech you, forgive me,” he murmurs, his eyelids slipping shut as he childishly rubs his face in the soft crook of my neck. I struggle to escape his grip, and his distraught groans and heady pants shoot between my legs like thick, ropy bolts of electricity. I shudder slightly as he presses a kiss to my carotid.

“I do not want you to touch me,” I lie.

He whimpers drunkenly, and I add: “you should not want to touch a whore, anyway. I will accept the seed of just any man, so you should stay away lest you catch some nasty sort of bug.”

Nikita releases a feral sound of sadness, and once again, his animalism does not fail to incite a hitch in my breathing. He holds me so tightly I almost cannot move, his breath leaving sticky trails across my collarbone. Beads of sweat amalgamate along my sternum and eventually pool into my clavicle, and he mournfully swipes these droplets away with the tip of his tongue.

“I didn’t mean it, Søren, I never could, I love you so much. If you were impregnated by another man I would rip the awful thing out of you and replace it with a child of my own. I swear, I love you too much. I never want to see you in danger again. Let me make a baby with you?”

“Tonight?” I have my fingers laced through his hair, partially to pull him away when he came too close to my face than he deserved and partially to touch the body I have grown so fond of in the last few years. I am somewhat dumbfounded, and my heart beats furiously inside my chest like a bird trying to escape. It screams against the milky-white confines of my ribcage.

He answered with a soft ‘mmm,’ pawing at my erection and thrusting his own excitement against my leg. Despite the stronghold I have on his hair, he manages to kiss me, moaning at the pain my left hand’s resistance provides. I loosen my hold and allow myself to properly feel the attentions he is laying across every plane, curve, and contour of my body. A child? Surely this tirade must be composed purely of drunken ramblings, for my Nikita has serious qualms with settling down. However, as I feel him mouth, and then murmur, the word ‘safe’ against my lips, I begin to understand. Seeing me in danger must have trigged some dormant sense of domesticity deep within him, and now he wants a baby either to keep me grounded and safe or to reproduce while we are still in our prime.

I am snapped out of my reverie as Nikita kisses away the tears I did not know I was shedding, and as he whispers “I didn’t know I’d love you so much” I become putty beneath his hands. He molds me into a thousand different things at once, and as I help him to remove my pants, I cannot repress the shudder that rakes down my spine as he roughly palms my length. I moan into his open-mouthed kisses.

Nikita is positioned between my spread knees, and I pull him close by squeezing my legs together, as close as possible to the unrelenting heat of his body. He sighs and moves one hand to cup the abundance of my thigh, his left fist still softly pumping my erection and stoking a small heat pooling in the pit of my belly like warm milk. His movements are sloppy, unprepared; Nikita is usually so alarmingly methodical in his lovemaking that his irregularly imperfect strokes are almost welcome in their normalcy. Do not get me wrong, my darling is certainly uninhibited in bed and frequently loses himself in the throes of passion: however, his self-control is omnipresent, as he is much larger than me and can easily misjudge the strength of one thrust and severely jostle my insides. His current state of drunken urgency is driving me absolutely wild, and I find myself unconsciously positioning him at my entrance, even though he is fully clothed. I want him inside of me, now. I want all of him in me, fucking me the way he wants to, the way he will never allow himself to. My face flushes as I imagine him coming inside of me, a physical sensation I have yet to experience.

This sex will be average, painful, and in its mediocrity it will be immeasurably pleasurable.

I remove his black polo and start on his jeans, but he tenderly bats my hands away and finishes the job for me. I push him on his back and clamber on top of him (he is momentarily confused, and for several seconds I see him staring at the ceiling unblinkingly.) He regains his focus when I nuzzle his genitals, licking at the base of his shaft and softly fondling his sac. He moans loudly, a guttural sort of noise that comes deep from the base of his throat - and I contract involuntarily, shuddering and decidedly pleased by the effect I have on my baby. I take him as deeply inside of my mouth as I possibly can (halfway, I was cursed with a sensitive gag reflex,) my hands on both sides of his hips as I attempt to ride his inebriated bucking. Several times he pushes himself too far into my willing mouth for me to accommodate, and I feel my spittle leaking down his cock and pooling on the downy skin of his underbelly. I cannot help a sparse choke now and then, but he sighs breathily and I recall his embarrassed admission that my struggles to take him deeply arouse him in a very niche and particular fashion.

It must deeply tickle his sense of masculinity, being so large that I suffer, in a sense, to handle his manhood. The fragile male psyche is laughably predictable at times.

He gently lifts my head and presses a sloppy, wet kiss to my face, and I tighten my entire body as heady waves of anticipation trill up and down my spine alongside his fingertips. Nikita gently lays me on my back, and I watch him with a glazed, wanton expression as he hooks his hands beneath my knees and gives each leg a fondly appraising glance, eventually lazily lifting them over his shoulders. I lock my feet behind his neck, and he smiles, rubbing the back of his hand against my face. The skin is still somewhat tender from his powerhouse slaps, but its increased reception to touch makes Nikita’s gentler caresses all the more enjoyable.

I live somewhat of an epicurean lifestyle, I decide, as I admire Nikita’s beautiful, muscular body and his alluringly angular yet touchable face. I only allow for the company of the finest things.

My love leans down over me and presses a long kiss to my lips, and when he pulls away there is a small strand of sputum connecting us. I lick my lips, watching the spiderweb gossamer snap effortlessly. Nikita’s eyes are hooded and lustful, and while his aureate gaze is not as coherently doting as it usually is, I can see lazy undertones of devotion and pure, unadulterated lust. His stubble scrapes against my jaw as he peppers languourous kisses down to my sternum.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask, barely more than a whisper. His first response is to press a long kiss above my heart, leaving a glistening wet patch that has me in shivers as his breath ghosts across my skin. His second response resonates strongly in his chest, his body a velvety vibration against my own.

“More sure than I have been about anything.”

I am supine; I cling to him sharply as he enters my body. I hold him in place above me, as I would prefer to be locked in coital embrace with him for the rest of my life.

He rocks against me gently at first, and although the delicious, tangible friction is almost painful, his diligent fingers have prepared me ahead of time and his erection is still coated in my saliva. He moves inside me in fell, fluid motions, and I raise my hips to meet him every time; he pushes inside of me with an intensity I have never known before, and with each sharp impact I cannot withhold feathery ululating that originates in the pit of my stomach. He is so predominantly big, and the pressure of my insides accommodating for him with each wayward thrust makes me feel so fantastically hot that I would be content to implode at this very moment. He fucks me with great, refined skill, and although his method is somewhat sloppy, his speed and prowess is admirable. Soon I am clinging to him for dear life, clamping down around him and reaching down with one hand to touch myself. His cries are loud, carnal; we meet each others’ thrusts like animals, kissing so messily that I can feel spit sliding across my cheek.

Such corporal pleasures are undeniable, and soon I find myself whispering words of climax into his ear. I am riding out waves of pre-orgasmic bliss already, and when Nikita - my indestructible Nikita of incredible stamina - gasps “finally,” his nerves shot by alcohol - i cannot help but chuckle a bit at his uncharacteristic schoolboy completion time. Moments later I am coming, his name escaping my fervent lips as I release my seed and tighten around him in my first, largest contraction - one of many - and I feel a warm, sticky pressure fill my insides as he slams into me one final time. The sensation is almost intoxicatingly sweet, and as my eyelids flutter I struggle to catch the look on his face - when I do, I am pleased to see the human embodiment of bliss.

Nikita breathes loudly above me, still experiencing the lesser cries of his orgasm, pleasure undoubtedly licking at his veins. I pull him down to me, and as he nuzzles my chest, I begin to run my fingers through his sweaty hair. We smell of salt and something more raw and human, but we are too tired and sated to care. When I shift, I can feel Nikita still inside me, along with something warm that laps at my inner walls. The technicalities of my situation are somewhat unpleasant, but from the standpoint of a Breeder I find myself deeply and profoundly satisfied. I squeeze absentmindedly, then hear my darling murmur quiet protests into my skin and cannot help but smile.

“Love you,” he mumbles several moments later, and he falls asleep before I have a chance to say it in return. I hold him close and drift off to sleep.

When we awake and Nikita pulls out of me, sticky strings of ejaculate cling to him, and when I remark it is similar to natto he hits me upside the head (“you are disgusting”) and drags me into the shower.

He is smiling all morning.

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to be continued

sorry for the gross last bit, i thought it was kind of funny. heheh. delicious natto!

you know the drill, please review, lemme know what you think, where you would like this story to go, etc. :) i appreciate hearing from you!