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In the midst of an ivory-walled hall, intricate marble statues line accented gold trims and tiled floors. Statues that depict the stories of Hesperia and Aesacus, of Hero and Leander, of Alcyone and Ceyx — passionately embracing as waves lap at their feet. And from the middle, a rope, thin and bleached, the fraying edges spiraling towards your hand. The pale golden threads coax you forward, step by step until you're reaching for its comfort. A bottomless pit below, hidden by the edge, filled with shadows that achingly stretch at your feet. The shapes look so . . . familiar.
“You can’t go.”
His voice is usually brighter and assuring, but tonight, his bleak, shaky words only make you feel worse. Guilt gnaws at the edge of your thoughts, treading through the well-supported essay you constructed earlier in your mind. Even though you knew this was the right decision, even though you had tried to find a flaw in your process a million times to give you cause for hesitation and failed, you can’t help but feel mistaken now. Maybe this was the reason you were looking for, the reason you should stay. These exact words.
“Marius,” you breathe, pained. “Please, stop.” His fingers hurry to unclasp the button of your pants as he pins his weight against you, keeping you from doing much else besides squirm helplessly against the door. Your hands are on his broad chest, flat and still. You want to push him away, but your elbows are locked and your knees won’t straighten and if you’re going to be completely honest, you don’t really want him to stop. Things would be so much easier if he had just let you walk away without fighting back but in a way, you suppose this is his last way of making you reconsider.
It’s too late to reconsider, but that doesn’t register in your actions. You let the sunset filter through the blinds of Marius’ bedroom, tracking across your bodies as his lips travel from your jaw to your neck. His kisses are possessive, the abstract bruises left behind acting as proof. You sigh at his fingers slipping under the band of your underwear and pushing off your clothes until they pool at your feet, leaving you bare below, “Stop this, stop . . . “
He tsks at your words and tests your slit with his finger, exhaling at your slick skin, “You don’t want me to stop. You’ve always liked this, the way I touch you, right?” He doesn’t wait for a response. Instead, his finger travels along your folds until he reaches your sensitive clit, where he lingers attentively. Strikes of pleasure rock your body as you hiss his name, the syllables slurring to soft moans when his spare hand trails under your shirt. His nails graze your skin as he cups your breast, massaging it sensually. You can’t help but grind against him, relishing in the ways his body makes contact with yours, "Marius . . . oh . . . "
“How can you leave me, jiĕ jie? Who else is going to treat you this well?” he asks. Your eyes stray from his desperate gaze and focus on his lewd hands. His fingers coax you forward, leading you along a taut, thin string. It’s close to snapping, especially so when Marius moves the pad of his finger over the entrance of your pussy, barely dipping inside. You clench onto him, clinging to the traces of bliss he leaves for you.
Marius watches you, his violet eyes wild with lust and need. “Answer me. Who else is going to treat you this well?" he pushes. You groan, wrapping your arms around his shoulders suddenly and hanging your head, “No one else. Only you.” Your answer is quiet but firm, unyielding. He grunts approvingly before pushing his finger in, reaching deep, “Stay. Stay, I can give you everything.” Each time he drags his digit out and thrusts it back in, he speaks, “I can provide for you . . . you can travel the world . . . experience everything you want . . . “
Another finger. “I’ll make you laugh always, you’ll never be sad.”
Thrust. “And make you feel good like this. I know you like this."
It’s hard not to cry. When a tear slips from your cheek, you aren’t sure if it’s from his words or the pool of tension in your stomach. Marius keeps his thumb on your clit as he fingers you perfectly, powerfully, and in your ear, he whispers, “Focus, jiĕ jie."
When you do, you come undone. Sparks of white spot your vision as you gasp and clench, your body relaxing as waves of pleasure pulse through you. Your nails claw into his back, your mouth drops open, and your toes curl as you give out into Marius’ arms. He easily holds you, keeping you tight against his chest as his damp fingers splay over your cheek and tilt you towards him. His lips catch yours, harsh and fast, and you moan into his kisses as he drags you deeper into bliss.
“Don’t go,” he breathes, “You can't leave.” His words carry a weight that you swallow needily, letting his tone ground you. You’ve never kissed him like this, never considered his lips a necessity, a requirement. Tangling your fingers in his hair, you slide your tongue along his, groaning at his taste. An addiction you’ll drown in if this continues. You need to get away.
“Marius, you’re making this harder,” you choke, his cobra-like presence suffocating you. Marius tosses you onto his bed and climbs over you, his shadow spanning your form. You can’t hide from his pained stare, those starry pupils lit with anguish. He leans in, taking your wrists with one hand and planting them above your head as his mouth presses against yours again. You can hear the shuffle of cloth below before his cock presses against you. He seems larger than ever.
This is not how farewells go. And yet, every time that thought floats to the surface, Marius’ touch submerges it fully. You bite Marius’ lip in an attempt to clear your head, as a passage to escape, but he simply smiles and rolls his hips teasingly in response. “Everything I do is for you, jiĕ jie. I live for you . . . “
You buck your hips when he slides along your slit.
“. . . and I’ll die for you,” he finishes, pushing his weight onto your hands as he positions himself and moves in. Your eyes blink wide as he sheathes himself completely. Filled, breathless — utterly 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦. His hips drag out slowly before snapping back, the sound of his skin meeting yours echoing around the room. You groan endlessly, “Marius, Marius, no . . . a-ah!" Each move, each turn of his hips leaves your mind blank.
And he loves it: the way your sentences fail with each thrust, the way your eyes shine when his cock is in you, the way your body responds to him. Only him. Marius caves over you as his pace turns violent, his words short and coarse, “You’re mine. Can’t leave, can’t escape. You’re stuck with me, baby.”
You can’t remember the reasons you had for leaving in the first place. Why had you even suggested breaking up when it always ends like this?
“R-right there, Marius! Yes, like that!" you sob. Your elbows twist and breasts heave and hips lift as you arch into him, sighing when his free hand teases the intersection of your bodies. His breaths are a symphony, lifting you into higher notes of ecstasy as he plays you perfectly. You love him — the way he towers over you, calls for you, depends on you.
And you depend on him.
Your second orgasm feels like a breath of fresh air, like you’ve taken off cloudy goggles and can finally see clearly. Every time he twitches within you, every time his skin slaps yours, every time his flushed gaze locks onto yours, you feel the washes of desire flood your veins. He fucks you through it all, keeping his intensity as he rocks relentlessly into your tight walls. You don’t even register what you’re saying — that your mouth is even moving — for at this point, all you know is this is all you need. Marius is each beat of your heart, each inhale and exhale you take.
He cums inside you hard, emptying his load in slow spurts. You jolt when his thrusts stutter, a breathless laugh warbling out of your throat when he collapses onto you. His weight feels more comfortable rather than bothersome, made more so by the little kisses he plants on your shoulder as you fall back into reality.
Reality. Flashes of sore memories ambush your mind: loud fights with broken glass and bleeding fingers, small photos of you spread over the table. Quiet, tense nights spent in separate rooms, that constant feeling of being watched seeping through your skin. Curt comments each time you went out, his eyes criticizing each outfit, each word, each action, each and every little thing. And they always end the same way — he’d embrace you like this, just the way you crave, and then he’ll turn to you.
“We’re meant to be together, jiĕ jie.” Always the same fucking phrase.
Always the same fucking thing.
You can’t go.